This morning

Hoarfrost flowers on the stubble, and catches first light as it glints off the snow-filled furrows.

This white

beneath the cloud-shadow's slow blue

is a privacy turning outward, unfolding -

like the shape of water overflowing

a leaf-clogged gutter - how it freezes

in the moment of its fall.

This morning.

This quiet as the streetlight clicks off,

and the gray horse, its mane hatched in ice slivers,

tears at the bent, shagged stalks.