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.