Deer in the Woods

Lately, the forest is dank
with mussed trees,
leaves fussed and branches
cast askew for better air.

I've been tiptoeing here:
hoof stumping a
crunch into stiffening
snow, rutted in
a gangling pattern: homeless
seeking home.

Perhaps it's the sighing
wet of this world
that's caught my nose,
tempted my tongue towards
the bitterer brambles--

though the wind is high
in the old oak trees and
the fur of my
neck still stands thick
in the breeze,
I find it harder now,
harder to sink my snout
into something real,

harder to differentiate
in the substantial smog
where my thoughts awoke.
I breathe in fog.
Or is it smoke?