Fields of dry cattails line the dock, then ice
and blue sky. I lie down on the wood, touch
my glove to a frozen bubble, hear the
creak under her waterproof hiking boot and
hate her, hate that she has broken through,
and move on. A dirty upside-down beetle
clings to the underbelly of the surface, finds
the opening, stops, turns, and walks away.
Larvae inch themselves forward and crest
and become something. Cold air dries new wings.
They will fly until the next snow falls.
In bed, my teeth clench with unsaid prayers.
