A field sparrow 
is at my window, 
tapping at its reflection, 

I want color to braid,
to bleed, want song 
to fly to flex to think

The winter sun says fight.
The arctic blasts say fight.
This polar world is flat

 

Here there are small animals 
foraging and content
Perhaps this is what’s called 

 

At sunset the mill workers convene at the tavern
talking of their children and how they bathed them in a cistern.
One man compared the evening sunset to his boy's letter