Bird             A. J. Heskett 

In deep November my inner eyes
pan across receding skies of light.
The darker day is longer, slower
on its way, with frosty breath
glazing pensive waters to a slip
sheet surface. The ice beneath
an easy moon, the shore's edge,
the dusted woods white in winter
all conspire as if to whisper, almost,
something urgent. Still-born
minutes pass, time is the count
of falling snow, (nature's make-up)
and falling snow in deep November
says something urgent in a whisper
at the shore's edge in the white woods.

AJH, Nov. 24 1986

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