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.