Light wind at Grand Prairie, drifting snow.
Low at Vermilion, forty degrees of frost.
Lost in the Barrens, hunting over spines of ice,
the great sled dog Shadow is running for his life.
All who hear-in your wide horizon of thought
caught in this cold, the world all going gray
pray for the frozen dead at Yellow Knife.
These words we send are becoming parts of their night.
Leave a Reply