White grass
James Kates
Winterlied

The low sun lights from underneath
a coming snow sky.
A crow alone cries to a crow alone
in a nearby tree –
a few flakes thicken the air.

Here's to those who sit by their own fire,
and here's another to warm the feet
of those who set out tonight
and get from here to there
before the morning.

And here's the last of what we have
for those of us with nowhere to go
who come as well from nowhere –
you on the wing, already shaking snow,
I in a nearby tree.