Across the looking glass of my lens

I spotted the birds flying

but when I turned my head again-

they were only leaves

And so it came to be

on the moors of my backyard

the ferns ran free across the valleys

and the horses clung to stone wall fences-

frozen, nervous, quiet

I carried a journal as I traveled

across the tar and three foot forests

I sat whenever I could

and let the boulders pierce my calves

And what I wrote inside that journal

were pictures of my mind-

terrible, sketchy, unclear drawings

of monsters and of ice