The land is sleeping

the land is sleeping mud and ice
patches of snow in stiff, dry brush
broad shoulders and hips of hills
still and mute in thin sunlight

the land is dreaming
of something melting
of being swollen and wet
ready to green

one day the moon will rise
over that big shoulder and hear
a new wind whispering a warm song
into the ear of aspens by the seep

and the tongue of the creek
will tumble warbling downhill until
small birds arrive with
bits of sunlight in their beaks

















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