The snow makes plain the plains
leaves the slopes sketchy;
it clarifies the trees, their branches
and their branches’ inter-distances.
To some bits adds more information, details
only a transparent woman or man can see they can’t see –
when their lungs are fretted by chill filigree,
before the out-breath makes itself crass, like brass-work.
A peregrine’s eyes, maybe, or a tight German-lensed
camera from 1956 might get into the swing of it:
patterned idiosyncracies, unhunted, branded,
mid-air criss-cross over lower-down layerings.
Soon I will fail to recall the complexities
of my dismay.