Going First

Falling like milk steaming from a warm bucket in the barn
this frost is pulling us all to the windows.

We crave the white
after the oddity of brown Christmas
and rain on New Year's Eve,

as if we have never seen the sparkle,
drastic and kissing the dry grasses
with light.

A murder of crows
huddle in the pines
cawing their stark reminder,
caressing this is the last day
with strong music
for someone
who least expects
to go first.