Ladies, it is late. The lake is ice.
You've surely seen the heron fly beyond
the great black oak. And watched the robins go,
the nuthatch go, the koi pond crusted silver.

It's February in the yellowed grass.
Beneath the bones of trees: the sleeted pond.
Your broad feet tromp on wet-dirt-seeded snow.
You stroll and browse for seeds-no thought of cover.