Cold
       

       Such are the words of its inventor
       as the dog and I stagger
       through drifted snow to the bridge:
       
       birches creak before the wind
       their bows clack, bone on bone;

       bank to bank reeds catch windy voices
       in their thin vertical nets;

       waters stretch across this drumhead river,
       so tight, I fear, surely, they will snap;

       while underfoot, broad boards
       ache aloud at our arrival.

       At the rail we stand,
       quiet between breaths,
       and listen 
       to this strange grammar 
       of terror and despair.
       
       
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