December breathes through me
its blue metallic breath.
In the dim light of dusk
leaves stir over the ground
like the dead bodies of birds,
their thin bones crunching
beneath my steps as I enter
the field. Rain hurries over
the horizon on spidery legs
to meet me among the brittle weeds
where I've come to break gray blooms
for a winter bouquet. All around me
the field knots up in tingles
of red briars, shreds of abandoned
nests with tufts of fur, slivers
of bright feathers. Nothing runs
from my path nor speaks my coming.
The rain is upon me in the middle
of the field, and I am out of sight.