The print of his passage over a white page
summons again the hounds, the folded wings
and the cold hill of hunters coming down
through dwindling trees, never to reach again
the skaters, workers, watchers of their town.
Those trinal peaks he will not recognize
where decades past the snowfields broke and fell
with gunfire echoes ringing his cold dreams.
He does not show us this lone man on the bridge
who stops with his dark burden, as one crow flies,
and beyond Brueghel steps to the rim and waves.