Emily Evans Larson

On a Winter’s Walk

Fog muzzles our path along the railroad berm,
a levee between the river’s moods
and farms staked in the bottomland.
We walk,
a distance between us,
words kenneled in winter’s damp memory
taste the gin of regret.

Sunbeams punch holes in the mist
illuminate what we are meant to see:

A cedar elder slumps toward the river bottom
clutched in a cottonwood’s broken embrace,
an improbable marriage
in the wildwood solstice

sun standing still
between the levee and the river’s flow.

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