I’m burrowed beneath blankets waiting for
The furnace to kick in. Even the crows outside
Can’t get out of bed, the cold’s that bad.
Carrying the weight of winter.
I imagine one crow too many landing on a branch
And that branch snapping from the ache of its freeze
The way people are known to snap in particular winters
That run long and hard inside us. Nerves like power lines
That grow taut and brittle, sheathed in a rough fist of ice
Ice that has little else to do but add to its own sense of itself,
Heedless of the burden it brings to bear, or the sound
Of what might be the sound of something elemental failing.
We’re always waiting for something to break
Even if it’s our veins blue with blood
How it’s hardly worth calling out
Not when the furnace has just stirred itself
Back to flame, the lift of dust set adrift in the current
And how it’s only the crows who remain unconvinced.
