i miss the sun these days
by two o’clock it begins its
long low languorous roll
shadows stretching endless
flicking one by one to the horizon
before the descending dusk

the birds have gone these days
not all or even most but
the cormorants and kingfishers
sandpipers and seagulls
not least of all the heron
who stalks and stakes the fish
until there are no more
flown away to propitious marshes
oblivious to my observing

(i take my rhythm from him
and though i pass the weir
near daily i neatly avert
my eyes from his barren
fishing hole preferring
my memory until
he returns again
with the running herring)

soon, maybe sooner
with luck or poor weather
a few good hard frosts
a feast of flurries will
fill my open mouth and
cover the crackling leaves
bury the dead sticks and
then there will be some peace
again as i wait for my future in
the melt and muck and mud

for now the end is beyond sight
the days shorten
hastening toward their nadir
tumbling down pouring out
flooding their dark across and
over leaving their ink stains on
my back and under my eyes

i would wash myself in meltwater
if snow would ever fall but for now
it’s even before the freeze that thaws
and all there is to do is wait for icy
winds to whip my hair into tomorrow