poem
I am waiting for snow to weight the world.
To wake to a white land
and a long, thin length of brown tree limbs
etching a gray horizon.

I am waiting to find
a cape of smooth snow flung down,
disguising the hard surface
of a fluid darkness.

I will scrape the white away and
press my cold stocking capped ear
to the layer of ice skin.
Hoping to hear the thrum of water,
a shifting tied to shore and moon.

Beneath the ice are fish whose bodies
make movement within movement
stirring silt into brown clouds.