The lake has frozen here.
The wings of two bright siskins beat the air
Like motors whirring elegantly.
A squirrel sails across the bright trees,
Shaking broken shapes of snow
Showering from the branch,
An attempt to cross the air.
They are not yet here.
They have not yet come to crush the leaves,
Terrified by frost,
Or felt the pain crackling in their hands.
And so the squirrel runs, the reeds
Poking through the water,
Or what was once the water.
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