one sort of consuming

Delicately pounded overnight, the lower

appendages of our Norway spruce

flexed and the developing snow held them.

Windless daylight now, so I go out

wearing hip waders and conveying

not a fly bar but rather a garden scraper. I start

stressing the snow for the holdfast

of a branch that is so far down

a wren's home buoys above it like a float.

I work the scraper, not slashing but rather supporting,

at that point pull straight up. A current of air

as the needles hang their weight

over my head. Those effortlessness notes

of the snowfall, precious stones radiating

copper, green, rose—watching them

I lurch over a branch, go down

what's more, my gloves load with snow. Ok, I find

my dad here: I recollect as a tyke

how flares touched my hand the time

I added wood to the stove in our ice-angling

shanty, how he dove that hand

through the gap into the waterway, showing me

one sort of consuming can facilitate another.

The branch bounces at that point decreases into put

furthermore, pulls it together, looking

unaltered however all late spring

it will raise this day from underneath.