Winter Morning

I enter a winter morning
under furrows of cloud plowed
by the wind, and watch fingers
of light pick out trees, the
silhouette of the chimney,
touch panes of a farmhouse window.
A refugee from the daily news
where love in exile, bombs of
anger, a forecast of blood
on the moon shame us for our ways,
I listen while the country speaks
with the bark of a dog, the whisper
of still grass under the foot,
a crow announcing a new day.