The sky tumbles to Earth and shatters
to ice. Snow folds like colorless oceans
and shifts, greedy, across naked trees.
The creek shines clear and clean
as wiped porcelain. A man in dark wool
studies the frozen currents,
drops twigs and pine needles on the ice
and tries to conjure some prophecy of spring.
Wind slips subtle as a thorn
through jackets and gloves.
I do not know this city,
and the ravens are quiet.
The man in dark wool stands,
hopeless, the twigs piled at his feet,
burned by invisible fire.