2 January 2017

Ice, at the base
of the reeds, makes stiff
the stalks, aureoled
red-gold by the setting
sun.  Snap!
A tit has landed on one,
shot again to flight
when it did not hold,
the weight of its little body,
tit-little, a speck of flight
in the wider
picture, the river, drowsy,
falling to sleep,
a rower yawning
at the cold close of his row.
The enwintered evening brushes
dusk the air.

Philip Kuepper
(28 January 2016)