A prickling, edgeless snowfield,
swelling like held breath.
I stop, settle into deep, creaking
coldness. It soaks through thin wellies,
two pairs of socks. I look back.
My footprints are too small for me.
A stencilled crow, black as ink,
glides low, but will not land.
From And in Here, the Menagerie, Templar Poetry, 2007