In Russia

people walk

through the dark

breathtaking

breathmaking mornings

of their longest winter

 

boots on snow

they follow each other

packing old gang trails

tracking underground impressions

leading  everywhere and nowhere

 

their feet speak

in right, left syllables

a hush and crunch

song of slang

trails broken by others

 

mos-cow, mos-cow

mos-cow

the cadence of trudging

calls the destination

and capital of each step

 

hunched

hungry and ambling

like grizzlies padding

ancient paths

to deeper winter

 

I also walk to Moscow

a place I've never been

stepping in the deep snow

breaking a new trail

boots whispering peace, peace