by Oliver Hunter
steps of winter
circular into veins they sprang
inconclusive with the dawn
in canto, sung
lara–le lara–le
Held and drawn out to a point
that falls across the fields outside
and raises steps
one–two, one–two
circles of sky closing
on the form of the leaf–pile
the shape of the wind
what is the step across the field?
who knows its pace?
Birds fly in sacred geometries
following the tails of serpents
who bite their own tails
sun–golden, plaid about the throat
And promise to return as they
spin around again
But now they go, and leave swallow–trails
and snow clouds across the
topmost tree–fingers, blackened by cold and
miles and miles of air