Bloody knuckled and wet
haired, we pick and scrape at dirty
glass, but the ice is its own master. Alley cats
watch from atop fence lines. City birds
perch in a barren oak, sponging up

cold morning sun. They measure
time differently - without these
obligations to their societies. No need
to scurry back to glowing screens and
earpieces inside tiny cubes, to shuffle
other's hypotheticals to and fro.

They stare pitifully at our
clumsy bodies, bumbling machines. We heave
on the up swings -
down on the back,
then slide free. Today

we've earned our breakfast, but still
wish someone else were cooking.
We love this winter
game -hate its rules and its
players.