fence with snow

The sound of pines in the wind.
And to think you’re the only person on earth
isn’t hard, at the end
of the long journey nowhere.
Yet in the end I have come to
love this room and be the one
looking out on snowfields, blank
scores of wire fence in the deepening
snow, the wind through them a passage
of remembered music, bare
unbeckoning branches
with never a ghost
of a deciduous rustling,
the stilled river
with the sheet over its face—

Franz Wright, from “Going North in Winter,” Earlier Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2007)

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Skittish burros. by Joe Kopera