KIRK WESTPHAL

FOOTPRINTS IN DECEMBER

Shelf ice from the banks
flattens above black water,
the year runs out beneath, and sighs
while I sip the breath of sparrows.
My feet leave imprints in
compliant hummocks,
dark crystal in sugar snow.
Across and upstream, earlier,
beneath the leafless skeletons
a young boy with blonde hair
stands with a trembling bluebird
in his outstretched hands,
cupped and lifted
to protect, but to show me.
His eyes, the same hearth-dark as winter,
same as mine have always been.
He turns without footprints,
leaving just the blue on black and white,
and the river pours this cold year into next.