In barns turned from the wind
The quarter-horses
Twitch their laundered blankets.
Three Steller’s Jays,
Crests sharp as ice,
Bejewel the pine tree.
Rough cold out of Idaho
Bundles irrational tumbleweed
The length of Main Street.

Higher than snowpeaks,
Shriller than the frost,
A brazen angel blows his silent trumpet.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 4 Number 6, on page 35
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