Ten miles of white air: mentholated space
ignited by the sun. The pea-soup fog
becomes a crystal mist, reveals earth's face
unshadowed, though the birds we catalogue
are silhouettes and we are blackened sticks
with muddy boots, like lumps of coal on snow.

Enormous soul, or tiny? Take your pick.
I had to go behind a bush you know,
and saw the winter grasses curling, gray,
like frozen fireworks waiting just for me
to witness their patterned, subtle display.
I pish a bit but no birds do I see.

I'm happy anyway. I've seen the earth
and know that every moment is its birth.