First the raw muscled shoulders of

this valley, and the new snow like

skin. The moon, crushing down the

dark, pushing its light, and the skin

of snow breathing back. Too perfect,

clouds. This must be projected from

another place, this must be as distant

as the cold wind hushing, miles away,

through the bones of trees. This must

be as far away as the moon, fat in

space. Nothing this good can be real:

the still air, the new snow and the

moon paused overhead. The dull

rapture of breath…