Waiting Again for the Snow

In the hills above a river with the hunted,
undercover of the frozen bone marrow trees,
I see someone is checking on the traps below
the empty limbs of dripping lilac boughs.

He's tracking in the melting snow for scarlet
cracks and tufts of hair left on the ground,
for a leg or foot still quivering, caught between
the smell of rancid bait and winter's starving wind.

I'm haunted by the slaughter cast before my eyes
and huddle in the dust of my belongings, on the run
and wondering how long before my wounded
footprints show in the night of life and death.