Words start as I look at the dog in the sun on the rug by the windowed door. I look through the glass across dry boards of deck into a strip of porch snow protected by the shadow of the handrail which protects me from falling fifteen feet down the hillside below.
I look across the empty air into wooded hillsides shaped by snow and shadows of straight and twisted leafless trees.
I think of this good moment fading fast into the future, and these few and feeble syllables seem adequate for now.
Clover seed is sown in patterns, and bloodroot spreads its flower head,
but Hamish hangs
in Holy Robes
of saffron, black and white
and turns his teeth in turmoil as he stares into the night.