still

rivers bend the smell of
smoke and mash –
copper-shaped vapours wash
onto the abstemious backwood

ploughing the scent from crumbling
deadfall;
indulgent Bobwhites flick at the
settling haze
ferreting out snails they
pursue the heady odour back
into the brush
to hide with it, store
their prizes

slow fires eat through the night
and trickle into
handmade jugs set
against the loam –

decades burned into
the wind, that familiar smell
smudged across Appalachian soil
like ash on a
bloodied brow