Eight pigeons fly in close formation, north
toward the rail line and spilled grain.
Their wings are slate gray, bodies misty blue.
They cross a sky of the same color.
Black ice and remnants of snow patches the road.
Moisture in the winter air is captured by the road surface.
I walk haltingly down the bent grass bank to the river.
The frozen hummocks are unforgiving to awkward feet.
The dog bounds in energy and certainty to the ice edge.
The river ice has cracked and bled its brown water on its skin.
It is too warm to refreeze quickly.
The water lies in long, slushy puddles.
The dog is unsure if he should wade in the water.
He steps warily.
We keep to the thick center
where the air bubbles and fractures are trapped.
Thin ice is piled in shards near the shore next to the brown rushes.
It crunches underfoot.
It is a milky translucent blue
as though the sky had frozen, cracked and slid to the river.
It holds every color of the winter sky.
