In the clearing he is surrounded by trees.

No wind. One sound: the icy cogs

Catching as snow gathers on snow.

He imagines a bed of pine-needles

Upon which he might give in to sleep.

His hands are not cold. Each burns

As if he carried embers in his fists.

Perhaps a horse will trudge the distance,

Find him, lead him back through the trees.

Perhaps this shallow meadow was a pond once,

And where he stands he is in over his head.

He looks up, sees overhead the underside

Of a boat, slow then stall, as ice seizes its sides.