Alternating Current

You layer wool against cold
to go view clots of inlet pan ice
plying loud salt slush
in raw winter light.

Low sun goes early daily
but takes its pale time.
You’re careful on frozen ground
that will hurt you if you fall.

Cold warps the image
of far mountains, warps the very light
forcing itself through distance
to our faces.

Overhead, jets hurtle off the bluff,
sounding pained or pissed.
They launch for Asia and Europe over cottonwoods
that shed leaves an age ago, revealing nests.

Midday ripens straight into evening
this time of year. Evenings quicken here
where elsewheres get their afternoons.
Water keeps time, not the sun.

Anyone could not go home.
Anyone could leap onto passing ice
and ride the noise toward the gulf.
Anyone could gather the dark,
soak their voice inside the white floe noise.