Stillness of the Night

The first thin ice spreads on the pond,

Cracking like glass beneath the weight of a branch.

Wind skims the surface, dull and cold,

Scuffing the water’s skin.

A few late geese pass overhead,

Their calls already distant,

While the low clouds linger, heavy,

Their edges tinged with iron.

The field, once tall with summer grass,

Lies flat, brittle to the touch.

A sparrow hops through the dry stalks,

Picking at what’s left.

By the shore, the rocks hold fast,

Their dark sides crusted with frost.

I stand and watch the light fade early,

Sky pale as old bone.

It’s the time of year for waiting–

The first snow, the long night.

Each day draws closer, quieter,

Like a door slowly closing.

Concetta Pipia