Listening To Snowfall
At night you hear the falling,
but only after it has settled
on some eve or ledge;
a parlance between whisper and creak.
Beyond the deaf walls,
listening to the bushy tails of foragers,
the sibilant rustle of padding paws or claws.
Ears overhear the pitter-patter of ice crystals
talking to a windowpane.
Outside in the snow heaps,
fur-clad foragers shovel for shelter.
From swaddled hollows
whiskers sense when you turn in your bed,
a body curls ever tighter
around its incoherent flesh.
Right now – if asked,
you’d swear the sky utters
as the snowfalls,
but it’s just the sound of gravity
walking upon snowflakes,
only the tumble of silence
settling.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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