The trees are running on empty,
defenseless, exposed to the faceless elements,
burned by the cold and starved by the desiccated air,
yet they stand
and sway as though they listened
to the songs of the land
humming through their roots,
branches snapping to the beat.
Above the frozen river, robins filled their branches,
mud-red feathers harbouring heat,
gripping the tree limbs as though they would lift them up,
piercing the soft bark with hope.
over the water 