Winter is when I find Taghkanic Lake
through leafless alder and oak
or coyote bounding solo
over the cold morning road
while those far homes set hillside
birth dense white, wood burned faith.
There is a species of relief
that is snow on the roof,
sweat on a wool scratched back,
when, part of the body of the bed,
the sky chooses copper
and we begin to talk horizons.