In a cold strange field, not far to the south
a thousand chickadees chittering about
the stand of birch where now in repose
the 20 saplings and six healthy lay close

The first icy proclamation of this winter
calls a single night of storm a sinner
but madness is no sin and thus I weep
and watch and wait for my own kind sleep

Yes, thin bark and brittle wood uncut
all lay silent there, & there & there for what?