Nights when the blanket
fails the wind
raking oak and eave
an undercroft of quiet hangs
like vestments in a sacristy.
The creaking sash relentless
porous as a threadbare glove
and still I hear
the chipmunk breathe
all curled around with root,
the vixen’s kits
beneath the shed
awaiting mother’s hunt.
Our rising chests
a compline prayer
of hope to keep us warm.
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