mood, rises
still
more slowly—
a whitecrimson maw,
now chewing
the ice-
blue
skin from the
sky as it wanders, keeping
even lower—
to those lank
and snow-
limp ranks
of old treetops
below—where
three rawboned finches
dart and argue,
ravenous—over
this one
particular
cracked and hollow—
hull
of yesterday's
bread.
