Today I am pulling on a green wool sweater
and walking across the park in a dusky snowfall.
The trees stand like twenty-seven prophets in a field,
each a station in a pilgrimage—silent, pondering.
Blue flakes of light falling across their bodies
are the ciphers of a secret, an occultation.
I will examine their leaves as pages in a text
and consider the bookish pigeons, students of winter.
I will kneel on the track of a vanquished squirrel
and stare into a blank pond for the figure of Sophia.
I shall begin scouring the sky for signs
as if my whole future were constellated upon it.
I will walk home alone with the deep alone,
a disciple of shadows, in praise of the mysteries.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwgzob4ZbKQr90GxNHem6BlXWix2h7tY1vINWWipc0V2s634rQQceZmCX1eP_jfp4Woj_mrDVC6Y29DPH-aMLd-dLF1ODEA5dbe747h7rrwMuMDZLZiaM3aAvTzO8YKSwmMRVfn5HkVw/s200/Hirsch-NO-COLOR-%C2%A9-Julie-DermanskyWEB.jpg)
Art credit: "The Wingprint," photograph of a strike mark in the snow, presumably taken by The attacker was likely a Great Horned Owl or Northern Hawk Owl, preying on a "vanquished squirrel." Photograph slightly altered digitally by curator.
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