The owls were flying.
Train tracks peeked out from unbroken snow.
I lied down in the chill of things unsaid
and watched the circling.
You heard the wind and the branch shake.
Half buried shopping carts by the frozen creek.
Your outstretched hand, the last storm’s flurries.
There’s nothing but the path left for us.
About the Poet
Randy Plym is a poet and author from Virginia. He currently lives in Frankfurt, Germany, where he’s working on a novel.