Below Zero

I doubt you would like this place.

Blue light on crusted snow,

sage drained of chlorophyll,

grey sky mirrored in the pond.

You say, "The dead of winter."

I hear revving in the distance

as a rancher warms his truck

to feed the bawling cattle.

This below zero day

freezes complicated thought.

The death of desire makes me tired.

​I want to sleep until spring.