Echoes fall softly.
The landscape’s baffled.
Hawks scout the suburbs,
extend their ranges,
take what they can.
Dogs, too, have reached
some kind of limit,
sit tight on boundaries,
look out on fields,
the hawk’s domain.
None of them
are waiting for spring.
Snow is the present
and will be
until it’s no more
than dust on distant hills
then gone – as if the land
has shifted beneath them
and they are in another country.
Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips
