1 a.m. Snow prints trail in moonlight.
He hauls a crammed duffle bag,
boards a dory, paddles noiselessly
across a river. Distant owls hoot.
He tramps up the bank to a plowed dirt road,
sweat dripping, breath fogging in 17o temps.
Headlights snowball-he dives behind a tree,
freezes. A camouflaged truck blasts by,
taillights shrink to red glow, vanish.
His boots crunch on snow. If caught,
torture or worse. Hours trudge
until he spies the small house silhouetted by stars,
quickens, knocks in code. Windows shuttered.
A door opens, closes, bolts. She lights a candle.
He unzips the bag, yanks aside packed clothes,
reaches up to his shoulder and
places twelve paperback bibles across the table.
