This poem clearly doesn't quite match with the coming spring, but nonetheless, I loved the play on a well-known poem to turn it into something darker and more melancholy.

--Karissa Chen, Fiction & Poetry Editor

Into the Snowy Woods

We followed the red-dotted trail into the snowy woods.
The injured must have stopped by the farmhouse
and leaned against the withered wheelbarrow.

We checked the blood stain on the white chicken
near the barb wired fence. He must've ran through here
before midnight. The droplets continued on the frozen

lake glazed with rainwater. We heard a queer whistle
as a limping doe crossed the crackling ice sheet.
"It's the wind through the fallen redwoods,"

mumbled the tired hunter with a musket.
I remembered his wounds, dark, deep, and grave.
The harness bells reminded us we still had the horses.