Night of the first day without you
comes like the river when we're not looking,
the field silently waits the first snow.
Horses have taken their hoof-prints
and speak no more of the wind.Roosters line their warm round bodies
in the tree, coo and say night to night.
My heart is a window. It is not cold
when you belong to winter, or watch
wild things and the wood grow taller.
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