He stands at his window and looks at the snow
and the wolf tracks in front of his door.
He takes his new phone – there is no one he’ll phone –
and makes photographs till he’s bored.
Then he sits at his desk, which is large and impressive,
and wishes depressively dusk
would absolve him of actions which in dark he can’t do,
but the morning has hours to go.
A bird whose black shadow was large as his desk,
when it flew over dropping those rocks
which had scared him, seems smaller in the tree where it perches
and he stands up and pulls on more socks,
a wool jacket weighed down with a Ruger Vaquero
in its holster he’d sewn in himself,
and a parka and gloves, and finally boots.
Then he genuflects, opens the door.

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