Cold Pastoral
Crystal Gibbins
I.
We wait for ice-out—
a release of winter,
the shiver thawing out
of our skin. The lake
lays open as a grave
between the land, buoys
the dead to rock edge
and the tide scribes
its first words in sand.
II.
Birch trees skeleton
the sky—divide sun
into tiny shreds of light.
Plump birds wobble
on branches, hulling
seeds until the feeder
empties. After snowmelt
husks pile up like tailings
of a slag heap.
III.
In a tangle of alders,
we find a bird
nest resting
empty—twists and twists
of dry grass,
nettle, and twigs.
Silent, bristled, and weathered
like a Monet
haystack in shade.
IV.
The lake takes wind
up like a woodpile
soon to be flame
and smoke. We watch
the old tire hang
itself from a tree,
swaying in the breeze.
Not even a snapped branch
can grow back
when it’s broke.
V.
Deer rise from shadows
in the woods when sun rolls
over the hill. Black flies and frog song
fill the bog. Moonlight halos
the lake, slips through gaps
in our windows. Moths flutter
against the glass. When the lights go out,
their ghost wings fall away like snow.
