and the mist rising
as the temperature climbs toward dawn.
Ít is nearly morning, nearÌy spring—
whispers between darkness and the light:
white clouds out of the mouth, sun
at the back of the mind.
The white mailed fist loosens its grip
on the blue river; the birds circle,
following the compass of their wings
to make a hollow nest of aïr,
At the far edge, a sled appears,
the driver wrapped in furs, relics
of the hunt, his face hard
under a heÌmet of frost, a scuÌpture
for the wind to
whittle to a fine edge. The geese settle
on the inland foes, their beaks pry
into the filigree of water lace;
the bear s paw
dips and fashes in the rising sun.
Twin dogs haÌt the halfˆdisordered
team, the driver Írozen at the reins,
a Cid in the armor of the Írost,
moored in the drifts, his eyes white—
burned out by the light that blazed
for days across the ice. One by one
the dogs lie down; their ears laid back
in the signal of alarm, their tongues
loll red among the white crags
of their teeth. They whine, harnessed
to the sledge of bones lashed tight in place
with leather thongs, runners deep
In the drifted snow. The sun leaks
red between the hills, the dogs
cower at the rising scent
of what their driver, thawing, had become.
Suddenly, they pull
toward the Íour corners
of the frozen earth, like some six-headed
sinewy beast, or snowflake changed
to fesh and Íur, intent—
In the growing light and unrelenting reins—
on tearing Itself apart:
dead center
in the Northern dawn.
Leave a Reply