Here

“The only other sound’s the sweep
of easy wind and downy flake”
—Robert Frost

Here a splintered split rail fence edges the road
drifts down in easy gait, bearing
a light dust of snow into forest of fir

Here leaves of October hide in winter coming on
sky heavy and dark though white clouds drift
earth, brown grass shooting through snow’s first layer

Here blanket of ermine
spread of spirit
inscrutable silence:

Hear the hound in this austere place
Hear the birth in this sweep of grace