Off this deck there are no splendid vistas to see.
Gray and marbled trees lean and weather
Rooted in the ground, entangled, rigid,
They appear imperturbable.
The earth sleeps under a veil of snow.
A hawk ensconces on a barren tree limb,
Catching the warmth of the sun, unmoving
As stone and stoic, in a blanket of cold,
The snow-covered yard seems to undulate
Below its menacing black silhouette.
A dog trots by like a miss-casted
Jackal hunting on a snow Savannah.
The path is bleak as a bleached desert.
A lone woodpecker hammers a fallen tree.
The wooden deck stays unmoved, quiet, steady
Along with its snow-covered assemblage
Of strewn chairs, square ricks, clay pots and wind chimes
Resting silent. Encircling me the air moves
And chatters in a vague idiom.
I listen as the passing moments arise and pass without hesitation.
Later on, the sky will be heavy with snow.
A grim night for star-gazers and hunters.
Even the tree trunks crackle from the cold.
I wished to see the hawk catch its quarry
But instead, watched it fly at dusk,
Slow, solemn, an apotheosis of nature,
Survivor of bleak winters, taut sinew and bone
Covered in a feathery jacket.
The morrow will see it back again and
This snowscape will flicker like a candle.
