At the beginning gate of winter,
the staggered stalling of snowflakes
heard upon roofs otherwise suctioned up
silent in the aching loss of temperatures,
changes which say forever blue is also
wound with a limpid gray of stolid
water that gasped amidst the last leaves,
a hindering upon the city streets,
even over the nitrogen from dog urine
by the painted yellow canary hydrants.
Freezing drips of ancient autumnal rust
of what is brought from high to choral low
is the holy, wholly the way the snow falls
from an open sky above the clouds.
It bends over the thickly brown brush,
makeshift caves for rabbits that have lived
long enough for a fettered balance with hawks.
They carry on the heart beat rites of blood.
Instinct as prime directive. Harsh motivator
from above with copper claws and beaks
that glean in crystal aquiline sky born views,
under which nosey quivers guide the routes
of dotted imprints that follow through
on the earth, the damp scenting nostrils, of
rhythmic profanities sounding in Morse code.
So as this, a beating flight, a run thumping.
Such as down upon the stored wine bottles
while maybe also with a playing of spoons,
a mouth harp, for, who would guess it,
if should we let it, some parties, dances, lodges,
clubs, ballroom entertainments, everywhere,
and possibly even the six day trial to anew
with a musical saw pulled from the peg
board wall, bending frictions so champagne hot
the horsehair bow smells of ungulates and Sioux.
The long, long trail really doesn’t go much
Of anywhere, white wail as the plains remain
spacious and the woods compact. Its congregated
nature and is in its existence, which is
on through a nowhere towards
a burning mirage of sunset. Hard reality:
each of us, flight or prized fur, will end
in the snowy cold, pasties stiffly pasted,
so we shudder towards nearing
another year’s end. How suddenly fierce
the celebrations, sciatic tracks in all full snow.