young trees, branches bare & budded (precociously primped for spring) lash my face bushwhacking along sans trail, I’m searching for mud pond I straddle fallen trees, stumble out & down to patches of snow & ice deer spoor, reeds treading in slush must scout for higher drier ground ahead a pale gleam, the promised pond I climb a ledge to a logger’s road of course, why else the young woods, mossy stumps, I stroll home so easy, no lashings, no swamp next time I’ll hike the road down ready to brave mud pond’s surround