In the Cornfield

Catherine Whitmore

The moonless night has wrung out
the whitewashed
hours of day,
and snowflakes gather as lint
from the great open pocket
of the sky.

Somewhere a corncrake caws into
the stillness;
its echo rings,
and in the woods beyond, branches
crack like splintered bones
in the chill.

I lay low beneath the frozen earth,
the seasons
sink my body,
and you will not think to look beneath,
so you will not hear or
see me there.

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