This Neck of the Woods

keeps a shadow on the creek
even at noon when each tree
loses sight of its height, the distance
the trees use to cast the fortunes
found deep in their rings.  Even,

here there are faces formed in the bark,
marble-like, half released then
buried in a dark canker, broken branch
splintered with the ache of a compound
fracture and still.  Frowns form over years

here; faces of drought and plenty, of winds
that pull like Furies, of a reluctant axe, of fledglings
who have failed in first flight. I see their eyes on me,
singular, silent in this cold as they wait
for me to fix a point, to get my bearings, to see just what side
of the tree on which to find the moss. 

*******

Just a quick, over-alliterated draft defining how cold I've felt the past few days.