The front of winter
slowly seeps up from the sidewalk
into the street unveiling
the last falling of autumn’s leaves.
A gentle fog rises
shrouding the fact
that winter, or the most of it
lurks just over the distant hills,
which mark the margin
of our vision.
Even the birds sing
in our confusion
they without calendars
not caring this day
is set aside to mark
the birth of a new year
and we, ignoring hours so we
need not admit we sit
in the heart of winter.
Bald eagle
perches tree top
winter barren gray
and stares at stunted pines.
Hawk, head
tucked under massive
wings reaching
for distant stars
rides a thermal coaster
waiting for squirrels.
Hills cry out
raging against dawn
tears flow puddling
in footprints
of a distant god.
The mountains rise, bluer
blacker than real
against a faded sky.
The ancestors have fled these hills,
no orange eyes stare out of the night,
no voices of the trickster
take up chorus against the stars.
