The rain turned hard,
pierced deep the pond,
soon to join its like
as one firm plane
we skated poorly on.
Back to my own devices then,
the shovel hanging from its spikes,
the sledge on its head in the stable
built from hand-hewn beams
after the barn's demise —
Deep snow, hard rain, the weight.
It woke us when it fell,
committed to each other still
in mixed precipitation.
Collapse shook the ground.
