In winter light,
Frail, hard to pinpoint,
We find peace, warming our ankles walking.
We blow air from our lungs into the sky

And kick our feet in still-unfrozen leaves,
Lining our way with fancied angels' hair
And angels' wings. We think of things
Like fallen tree-fluff, and we stuff

Nuts in mittens to make them bulge.
We snatch dried grass into our hands
And make big piles, rivaling mountains.