Just after sunrise, in late October,
On the edge of a country road,
I stand still, staring into a
Thick forest of birch trees that
Have lost their leaves weeks ago
And are now bare white against
A darkened sky, and I think
I have wandered into an artist's
Chalk drawing, each tree a
Hand drawn line, some bent,
Some straight, some broken,
All going this way and that way.

I stand quietly, listening
To the wind and the report
Of hunter's guns that seem to
Echo in the cold air and woods
Like thunder. The birches stand
Thin, tall and eerily white, and
I think I have wandered into a
Photographic negative that turns
All dark things white and
All white things dark.

I listen to the wind awhile longer,
To a few more shots that echo
From the hunter's guns, trying
Hard to decide If I am standing
In an artist's chalk sketch of birches
Or a photographic negative of poplars
And aspens all turned birch white,
Before I wander home.