Dakota Winter

The mice are back in the cupboard.
A frozen kitten sleeps in the barn.
A deer, exploded red,
birthmarks the centerline.

Out under this midnight moon---
lonesome glaucoma eye---
a pine tree splinters,
its crackling fissure
veins the air.

Somewhere a rancher pulls a calf.
A coyote’s fur grows.

As Bob Dylan sings,
“Don’t wanna take a chance
on no one,”

I think of you
in sunny Phoenix , and
this 72-degree difference
between us.

Bill Schulz