The dreams of the old men are winter snow, and the moon a fisherman casting down an invisible line, the signatures of light a
But for the owl’s persistent question, issuing now and then from a nearby spruce in the darkness and falling snow, I would think that
A brutal misshapen cold, and us unready. Whicker. Vessel-proof, failing. Dwarfed by things already shrunken. Wind making noise as it passes through our age,