March on the Flats
A dull sun reflects barely
on the rippled ice of the pond
that has thawed several times already.
A mouse scurries from the snowbank to the creek,
and back again, startled by a dog bark in the distance.
The noise seems strangely amplified.
A little water trickles in the frozen creek
making its path with an eerie clinking
--like glass, or a tiny, high bell far away,
from another world.
The snow makes a crunching sound, groaning
with a low, sharp "Au", under the boots.
Well, it will be gone soon.
Die snow! Die.
The chickadees are active in a swarm.
A little wood-pecker is at work.
Were they here all winter?
I can hear some geese.
The longer strands of the fur of my hood
play in front of my eyes like a curtain.
I've pulled the hood tight.
I didn't bring a toque.
Who thought it was so cold?
Hymns of the Last Sunday
8 hours ago