Those Who Sleep
Looking at the pile of rocks down by the marsh, I figure that’s where water snakes are brumating, maybe together like they sometimes are. In spring before the reeds grow and hide them, I like to watch them hunting. They’re as elegant as herons. They’re quick like sharks. They’re sleek in the reeds and sniff out what they need. Now their cold blood has made them rigid, and they’ll coil together under the stones. I dream of them dreaming the winter away. What must that be like, to die after leaves fall and be resurrected to a world of green.
Those Who Are Still Awake
There are not many of us awake this time of year, and I like to see those that are around. Deer. Fox. Goldfinch. Mink. We live mostly on the last leaves on trees, reptiles gone frozen, and cans of beans. We dream of August corn and light and the wild sunflowers that grow in the fields that were farms until the women and men who worked them moved away or died. In the evenings, I like to go out into the brightness of the moonlight splashing off the snow and watch deer picking the last foliage, worry-sniffing at the wind.