Where You Were Headed

A poem.

Where You Were Headed

It didn't matter. It was how the pileated woodpecker
 squatted to her belly
 and draped and dipped her neck,
 one side,
  then the other,
 to her chest
 in a rivulet of melted snow.
 It was how the wind
  rubbed across the pines
 and the clear melt
 washed down every road rut
 all that afternoon.
  – Franco Pagnucci

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