he lies beneath a winter's night full moon
under the stretching silence of fresh snows
quiet, save for the Saw-whet's beep-beep tune
as if the living were claimed by the shadows
somewhere boots will crunch on a crust of ice
out to find the lost and longing wanderer
who thought no cabin rafters could suffice
to fuel the fires of an ardent ponderer
two enter a race neither knows he's in
with the crawling clouds that'll douse the moonlight
and with river ice that's getting thin
but mostly with the mean teeth of frostbite
would someone come for you in the witching hour?
then treasure him be he tender or dour
