A fire burns in the hearth.
It is night, and the sky is clear.
The air is cold; the stars are bright;
The birches are leafless;
The ground is soft and rolling
Beneath a foot of new-fallen snow.
A man’s wet leather shoes,
Creased and furrowed with age,
Steam upon the stone hearth.
Near them, lying flat, are his wool socks,
Testaments to time outdoors.
By the socks are two feet,
One crossed over the other,
Soles to the flame.
Dry blue jeans and a plaid
Wool shirt cover him.
His eyes gaze into the fire.
The house is otherwise dark.
The stabled horses’ breath rises in the dark.
The old barn smells of oiled rope and hay.
Nickering, the young bay stamps her feet,
Then sidles nearer to the old palomino.
In a clearing in the middle of the yard
Stands an ancient sugar maple. Ice glazes
Its branches. When the morning
Sun comes, the tree will gleam and seem to shine.
It is an enormous tree, one estimated
To be two hundred years older than the
Hundred year old house. Like a cosmic phenomenon,
The tree draws things to it: Birds,
Squirrels, horses, dogs, and people.
Now a great-horned owl leaps
From the tree’s branches.
It flaps once, twice, thrice,
Then glides nearly a quarter mile.
The owl flies over the hoary mist
That floats above the frozen creek.
Then the owl is gone,
Disappearing into the pine forest that lies
Deep and cold and still,
Where in many minds
Mystery, horror, and romance
Still thrive in winter.
