A cold day it was, and the road stretched out
Beneath the gleaming snow and a winter sun.Only the tiretracks distinguished the route,
And one spot of ground looked like another one.
Fence posts poked black above glistening white.
Here and there were the prints of a quail or a fox.
A thick frigid comfort had been dropped in the night;
Even the cornfield showed no brittle stalks.
It is strange but not unpleasant to sit in the snow
With your back to a tree and eyes squint to the glare,
And no one to disturb you save an occasional crow,
While your warm breath collects ice on the cold quiet air.
With your fur grown as long as any other forest thing,
And your blood like molasses, you are waiting for spring.
December 1970
22 Jan 1971
22 Jan 1971