I abandon a small poem and on a walk along the creek, find traces of another. Meanwhile, the war goes on. I resolve to say “crocuses of light,” because first, green crowns come pushing through the snow, then crowns render blue and give themselves to the sky. Yes, the drive is frozen mud and wheel ruts. No, the field is not lovely, not even in some fallen way, though for the dogs this is paradise; a field of heaven. Last night, I walked out with a three-year-old in my arms, my jacket so tattered I said, “This is my stardust jacket,” to point out the Milky Way, trailing from the Great Rift into Sagittarius. No need under such stars to note the owl calling from the wood lot, the ancient Ford still marooned out in the blueberry flats. All night, the house smells of cigarettes, of smoked fish and wintered apples. Before dawn, I am awake. The dogs begin a cantata of whimpers and toggled collars, shaking the tambourines of their great black heads. Get up, get up, the dogs sing. The time has come to sniff the dark and piss our dreams into the snow.