Without any edges what wind there is keeps silent today,          and immortality must be like this ice, a shining glaze circumscribing our view, a solid halo.

I hope so says the girl, anxious for life and the birds keep quiet, knowing the truth; that ice preserves, encases, but also kills - beautiful though it appears to us, frosting our windows. it cannot be trusted -                                  all sculpture is deadly. and the grass crinkles underfoot. the dog is unsteady, old claws sounding their dissonant rhythms, looking for purchase, not finding any - fear in the blind is a terrible sight, and now it's the girl who's remaining quiet, who knows without thinking                                         a crippled gait is a portent.