Gunmetal sky. Two crows fly south. How many lifetimes until Spring?
A blue river at dusk. She counts hawks circling the mountain. Breath comes hard to some lungs in winter.
Clouds blow lazy this March. He makes tea. Between snow buntings on the grass, his daughter sips it noisily.
They tossed their Christmas tree behind the barn. Threw handfuls of seed there for the chipmunks. Now the crows come, blood in their eyes.
Dawn on the melted lake. Beneath a pine tree, picked-over trout bones. We put whiskey in the coffee to stay warm and don't say a word.
My daughter learned to walk in a frosty field this winter. The dog followed, watching her all the while. The mountain is visible even when it snows.
All this fear! Like a finger pointing only one way.
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