Snow brushed from the rocker,
Wrapped in old wool,
I sit to slow the day,
Listening for bluebirds,
Hearing only crows and chickadees,
Warm light through cool air,
And sleep.
Shadows of the trees point east
When I awake. Dusk is in the cabin.
It's been a day without a human voice,
A privilege, I think, as I head home,
In a world of billions.
Out of the woods, over the hill,
Something immortal, the sunset on snow.
