Ice finds deep pockets, sunless crevices frozen until late spring,
earliest summer. Ground surface relents, but underground
holds clusters of crystalline slivers, procession into further depths,
sickles hanging like porcelain fangs.
Wind practices its crude archery here. Shafts of bitter sting fired at
random, taking down whatever finds itself
crossed between slanting currents.
Song sparrow on the ground, struck against some unseen field of force,
quivering on the lip of the cavern, beak working up soundless
monosyllables, wings tremble without lift, without surge.
It still moves, that stirring form which will emerge, momentarily
visible, into the light, claim what feast air sacrifices to ground.