The early winter light is so bright I can’t see

the page, as if I’m writing blind. I hear

singing and write that, following sounds.

The white fog clears with no sound; birds

hide in the trees, and in the grasses, cold feathers.

The voices disappear, forlorn with early sunsets.

At dawn I scatter seeds over the frosted meadows

and silent grasses, heavy and bent toward day.

The year follows itself, an icy stream winding

this way and that, insisting on its own shape.

Now I’ve memorized it, the chinking notes of ice,

while something within insists I play it another way.

Talking to myself, carving a thought, a kite in spring wind

tied by a string to the eager, earthbound self.

—Nellie Hill