aerial bombardment

ice falling from the trees  over here

ground and sky white

whichever way the nuthatch turns

a ladder rattling
atop a van

on an empty stomach
trying not to stare

You can see farther this time of year because there’s so much less to see.

ridgetop wind
speaking in the voice
of a raven

the trees’ white skeletons
when I close my eyes

the dragon in my rock
will never hatch

a lone kayaker raising her phone

letting the wind help
fold my map

in my earliest memories
you were granite

blank spaces on the map

a bottomless blue
six inches deep