Morning arrives armatured in glass.
The pines stand rigid along the road,
each needle sleeved in ice, each branch
bearing a brightness too heavy to keep.

All night the storm practiced its slow
addition (drop to sheath, 
                                        sheath to weight)
until the forest breaks under pressure.

Now the trees begin speaking.
A rifle-crack travels the ridge:
one tall pine giving way at the shoulder,
its green bones splitting 
under the crystal load.

After each break, stunned silence,
snow-light across fallen limbs,
sap already stiffening in cold air.
The forest, having spoken,
must now stand still, listening
to its own grief.

Previously published in Eunoia Review