Cedars breathe, slower than the grasses but not so slow as stones. Paled, the verdance of their scratching splits short days, cracks bones. With wails whispered half gone, colorless wind catches avian darts in current, hurling winged survivors into blues gone white, ochres greyed; in piney hearts and bared burls they find frozen comfort for the night. There is shelter here, in marooned evergreen a deepened slumber, a breaking dream where iced veins thicken, strain, and woody muscles burn, entrain the rhythm of a soiled heart: waiting, watching is their part. (edit 8/21/02)