Winter Burning
There is no breeze. Persistent
fog seals the fine edge
between earth and heaven. A ship
plies the channel, headed
out to sea, its horn
marking the passage, mile by mile.
Now when it blows,
it's west, below the island,
and moving out
of range. Otherwise,
no sound, except the snap
and flutter of the fire
I've been tending
all afternoon—now in darkness,
a mound of amber coals—
and the light, dry
rattle of the few maple leaves
left in early December,
their signal faint
in the growing cold,
and above, where the fire's
sparks rise and dim,
the call of tundra swans
navigating home.
(published by Spring Hill Raven)
—David Filer