Under the snow winter is pregnant.
The cold has a smell.
The sun is a copper arrowhead.
Birch bark scrolls tell old stories to the wind.
Rock writing talks to young stars.
When I blink, the ghost of an Ojibwe brave
Runs over the field without moccasin prints.
Near and far the patter
Of sleet on dead oak leaves,
That’s also the sound of a tallgrass prairie
When you’re really listening.