The stillness of new-fallen snow 
calls to mind a cornfield
beyond my childhood home, the hill

at its edge descending
to the wood where sometimes a doe 
stands rooted beside the water. 

I feel the weight of my sister 
behind me as we double
up on our sled, blaze orange

to protect us from hunters. 
Cushioned by the down of winter
coats and snow pants, we push

off from the crest, mittened 
hands pressing virgin 
powder, packing the foundation 

for a fast track. The slope 
plunging toward the creek is clear
but for one scraggly tentacle 

of barren bush which reaches
across our path. We barrel 
down anyway, laughing 

until the hot jolt 
of pain when a briar hooks 
the bow of my lip. I jam 

my boot against the ground,
stop hard. The sled whips 
around like a caught fish

on the end of a line. 
My sister’s mouth moves.
I hear only blood, heart

hammering my ears.
I think of that deer, imagine
the echo of a gunshot,

everything bright and silent
white, the scream of her wound
spilling drops of crimson.