Is the only way to describe this place
Rolling hills of corn and wheat
Which under the new field of snow
Beckon to be marked upon by booted feet
Begging for steps to fill the empty spaces
With signs of life

I oblige
Walking slowly
I come to a lonely hilltop
Marked by a few sparse trees and carefully pruned shrubs
Decorations for the few weathered tombstones
Sticking up at angles from the snow like
Childrens’ birthday candles

The color catches my attention
I turn
Expecting a holiday wreath
But no
Drops of blood stain the ground
A blood trail disappearing into the snowdrifts
Signaling pain and death for some small animal
Drops staring upward like Christmas ornaments
On a white and artificial tree

That such a sight should trouble me so
Standing on the graves
I feel little grief
But a few scarlet drops
Faintly seen scratchings from some unknown animal
Fill me with sadness and concern

I circle the snowy underbrush for signs of life
Or death
A fine powdery dust has settled
Into drifts that obscure my hunt
Erased from memory like the worn limestone monuments nearby
I turn and slowly retrace my tracks
They fill again behind me
There is nothing I can do