Tawny feathered tops of poplars
edge the rim of a china blue bowl that is the winter sky.
Frosty air shimmers,
the sun hovers just above the horizon,
gold slipping across the fields,
now stripped of harvest,
striped with vines tangled and torn.
A honk sounds,
and rippling lines of white wings,
like frothy waves,
the swans herald its coming…