twelve. Scant rattle
through bare branches.
down your collar. Breaths catch
and rasp at the back
of your throat. Thud and quick.
Empty road echoes.
When she’s not wielding wild words or swilling hot black coffee, Heather Moore Niver is trying to herd her wily sheep and chickens, persnickety cats, and beardy husband at her cabin in New York State.