Splintered corduroy roads.
A village, less than a heap of bricks, erased altogether by three inches
of snow.
A mask, repairing itself.
Hail.
The same surroundings at dusk, closing in also.
The Summary riddled with conflicting errors.
Careful weeping on the other side of the traverse.
A man in a felt hat with markings walking slowly in a northerly direc-
tion carrying a tin pail.
A silence between when I ask and dusk.
Then the flutter of tiny papers
flushed from a small wood.