There is a faint cooing,

then the silence that comes with new snow

and dusk.

Buried in the hedgerow,

where the moss and dead leaves

smell faintly of earth,

there is an unmistakable warmth.

I know this,

without ever splitting the iced leaves

with my hand;

just as I know the dove is there:

pushed down into its feathers,

singing to itself that this is winter.