The sky is a sheet of ice dripping into a pail.
The cold is the embrace of my dead grandmother.
Her voice the call of the crows in the sleeping trees.
The black feather I found on the steps is her letter to me.
I am a voice with no song.
Down the path and up the hill are the remnants of a house.
The foundation outlines a square on the ground.
Stones cemented into the last of the chimney splits the wind in-two.
A hawk circles over the place.
The chalk-line collapsed.
The level unlevel.
Linda Morgan Smith, USA