certain movements

—in the decomposition of an apple's pomace matting the seeds 
at its core against the grass and frost—it's not the surface wisp 

hissing the stillness deer stir crossing the snow over an open field 
through flurries that disturb the bruise of scent the apple casts 

on the exposure as it too passes across the field—a failing trace 

 
of pheromone scattering its loss into the clarity of night 
 
 

—it isn't the lure it is that gives or takes—reliant on the other 
exciting for the moment the ferment in the ground between 
 
 

—in the fertility of their gestation—ripening in the oblivion 
that surrounds the need to browse and to be browsed 

—eat and be eaten each to their consummation—it's instead 

an ecstasy of accidents gathering the sentience of the dead 
of winter to the temperatures of their identity—acclimating 
 

the random certainty of routine movements to the squalls at dawn