Cold
A family burns chairs, clothes, and axes
but nothing stops the silent killer.
Neighbors find them frozen in bed.
Another year trees explode.
Crows fall from trees.
Lakota winter counts show a black-ink crow.
Ben Kindle writes, “K’agi’ o’ta c’uwi’tat’api.”
Crows, they freeze to death.
This enemy seeps through sills and door jambs.
Chimney flues fill with its wrath.
North is its direction.
Nothing stops it from reaching
through flesh to the center of bone.
