Night, Deep Winter

Past twelve. You wake and lie
with eyes open to the blackness,
ears filled with the whine
rolling down the mountain
from beyond the white expanse
of snowfield. Somewhere in the hard
clear darkness of this late December
night, men toil with saws
and skidders and other cold tools.
A rough bit of work at the turn
of night, of season, of year,

and just as difficult to listen to
from the barren safety of house and bed:
others are alone this midnight, but
that brings them no closer to you.

— Anne Britting Oleson