Now that the slow moons rose
On a silver trellis grows
Where arctic rivers froze
Now that the ocean is frozen in motion
Snow morning comes
And the birds on the wing
Have nothing left to sing
Blown in blue glass like a schooner held fast on the ice
Besides that river where I picked, the slow moons rose
I watched the evening wither with a jewel at the end of my nose
Tell-tale snails leave their trails
Running from hunters' black blunderbuss under the sun