Seed of last year screams its thirst
towards the arid darkness of the bedrock

A haze is rising
through the lattices of crowns
by bare wait forged

A frozen time, a fist formed
in the mitten; winter, white

Black birds furl the
dusk light
within their feather pens:
sounds of flight, now quiet
amongst the trees

This day is sloped
aside
the steepest of the hills