When he drove up into the woods
it was the end of winter.
The first splinters of light
cut images in rock and stone,
a flutter of birds in flight,
the first spring buds blown.

In the strange half-light,
he pulled the hood down,
turned the engine on,
sat back to listen to the hum,
the drum of rain on the windows,
a chorus of morning song.

They found him at dawn the next day.
Those who gazed upon him say it was unreal,
the way his head lay hooked,
eyes open, against the wheel.
He left no note, no balm.
He went to the woods alone.