Snow has fallen; the light has changed.
At work I am silent, my fingers white
and strained. I do not want to be
a creature severed from my nature.
Perhaps we know too much, cannot shake
the wounded games. I too, can hunt
for rabbit, shoot the quail and send
the dog to drag it from its cat-tail grave.
Every night, the quail roasting in the pot
with carrots, mushrooms, onions, boiling,
I remember who I am and miss the speckled birds
whose songs did not survive.