BY THE IDAHO BIRCHES

By the paper birches

of my back yard
on my winter vacation
everything is first light
in this hinterland

away from the shadow

of a cliff stone bird

who catches a Siamese cat

on a jetty of my sleep

I'm driven by a sled

in the linear snow

the sun rises in Moscow

by the tidal pull

of my ink dream bed

from a first collection

near the shed

holding my  own papers

of bone sinking words
far from home

in the bluest eye, it seems

of my Idaho recollection.