The snow crunches underfoot, and the customary small clouds of vapour escape at every breath. The forest is still, almost silent, or silent, almost still, I cannot be sure of which, for tonight is a night of the unseen.
The full moon I came out to see is not here. Basho's moon and other's too, elsewhere, than this land of reindeer that I am convinced gave poets original thought, due to the injection of the red with white dots fly agaric mushroom, the toadstool, so prevalent in fairytales and a natural hsllucinogenic, once toxins are removed, usually by feeding it to reindeer first and then drinking their piss.
And people still wonder why Santa's reindeer flew?
echoes of the owl
in the hoot of the moon
the circle is not round