There is nothing left when the snows swirl, the wizened apple falls, the hills turn tawny and dry, our love lost in the undulant folds of the earth. We turn together in search of the blessing of the cirrus- shredded sky. Hawks soar, return to land, then swoop away again, carrying our hearts in their hypodermic talons, now heavy with wounded prey. Shall we step backward or forward? Shall we glide silently away, or run moaning to the hills? All directions collapse into one. All directions point elsewhere, never here, never there, never where we stand, never where we stare, yearning for the steely hawk's return, yearning for more than this chilly impasse, for more than the frisson of this no way out.