their calls must’ve changed

no hint of Canada now in these local geese

such a presence

the snow all around is flecked with black

dead sharp-shinned hawk

only its inner eyelids have fallen shut

the long shadows

move silently where horses once paced

fleshy leaves

ideal for the indoor desert face the snow

Hercules’-club

skinny shadows lead to thorny trunks

deep in the woods

the setting sun fingers two witch-hazels

a crowd of weed-stalks

they’ll all fall down when the snow melts

trapped