Across the clean cut cold diamond river stretches yet another highway.
Grinding rush of lumber trucks, and, at night, low scraping of lone snowplow,
Iron workhorse,
Roaring rust beyond brittle bare branches.

I go for a walk alone today.
As I turn the corner of the four wheel scored cooridoor,
A big black truck passes me by,
Lumbering mammoth.
I wave without making eye contact and wait for it to pass.

In the thicket, I find a massive tree chewed in two,
An hourglass balanced between the limbs of her brothers.
Dry, stripped, sanguine with lichen,
Refusing to fall.
I stare agape beneath this giant,
A tower suspended in midair.

There's a house so far in the bush no footprints mark the snow surrounding it,
Save for the sprinting gait of something with three toes
And wide, untrackable steps.
The house's walls are cold, pastel, and sag.
Empty mouth hole windows,
Cool, abandoned breath,
Billowing,
Dripping clean water through concrete cracks.
Some stranger has sprayed "FUCK HELP ME" outside the whistling window of the second floor.
The red words are ancient, faded,
Soft.

When I head back I hear the familiar twitter of some winter thrush,
And spot the surprising glow of a sunset breast through my binoculars.
I watch the bluebird for some time,
Fluttering between distant peaks.
"I'm alive,
"I'm alive,
"I'm still alive,"
It cries and I do too.

I return to the million dollar wood stove I cannot light
And collapse at it's freezing feet.
The floor is cold and covered in the veneer of ancient oak,
Glimmering epoxy resin,
Permanant and lifeless.
Joke of a home.

I pray one day,
These walls will fall too,
The stove will rust in the crystal Maine air
And the golden screaming tangerine lilac indigo snowfall,
And the neon moonlit midnight will blanket the both of us
In endless, dream-filled sleep.