Like crystal milk the frost
embraces a Busch can
tossed with a hand’s wave
to the beachgravel road pocked
by double-crescent prints
of deer crossing in files
of four that bound up
the grassy rise in grey
light to stand in vigilant
profile against a hazy sky
flushing blood red ahead
of dawn’s rays running
across slumbering meadow waves
marked by the elongated shadow
of a telephone pole’s trunk
and crossbar trapping
shade and frost, night and death,
bathed now in the inexorable light
of the rising sun’s redemption.

David M. Frye
April 10, 2009
Denton, Neb.