Between melts, the frozen river is slow enough That the ice seems motionless.
Hard and gray it could be immobile until the high sun, Shining coldly, opens the cracks that had closed overnight.
Floes move only in relation to the skeletal sycamores whose wide green Leaves will block the view of the water in five months.
Not “short” months, the frozen ones are the longest. Salvation is knowing the mud of March is weeks away.
How many would join me in hanging from those Same sycamores if February had thirty one days?