We smell woodsmoke at dusk
a cold touch of future
through the windows
And in the spaces between
our even breathing
I grow older, see the fall
of snow against my will, hear
the clear, strange cries
from the shifting ice as we walk by,
away from the warm kitchen, cracking-

And there is a certain tree here
thrown down and fading through the dirt,
smelling of stopped time and all rain-
that this pause would
be filled with something braver than
the flight of
one dark crow, bright
against remembered night.

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