Frozen stance and frozen gaze
held against November’s haze
that claims the forest’s silver blues,
enrobes his shape within the hues
till seems he’s near forgotten.
First good snow, first good dance
that softens rich this lea’s expanse
against the stark November sky
and captures cold the reasons why
he’ll pause where no foot’s trodden.
He claims a step, he claims just two,
lifts his nose to hold in view
black lines across November’s sky
in angles long and hushed wing’s sigh,
he hears the geese in calling…
Calling home, calling free
to stand at forest’s edge and lea,
to hold November’s first white blush
beneath the gentle downy rush
and winter’s season falling.