The ice had barely finished forming
when the wind came, and with it
pine needles and a troop of leaves
rushing to the lake with joyful abandon,
landing on its solid, thrilling cold,
and the ice giving way only enough
to hold them where they could see
the heights from which they had flown
and the wide, unobstructed sky’s light.
Below them, beneath smooth rocks,
fish dreamed of the music of forming ice
and the laughter of pine needles and leaves.