Listening To Snowfall
At night you hear the falling,
but only after it has settled
on some eve or edge,
then you hear the voices in the snow,
you listen to the bushy tails,
of foragers,
and the sibilant lips of the slightest breeze.
Speech pitter-patters over the windowpane.
Out on the ice,
paws grind and shovel for shelter.
There are swaddled hollows
just like yours.
There are snouts that sense
when you turn in your bed,
when you curl ever tighter
around an incoherent flesh.
Right now – if asked,
you’d swear the snowfall speaks,
but it’s just the sky creaking,
only a crushed silence tumbling
too loudly around your ears.
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