With roosters crowing by daybreak, pressing down

on the even spread of the horizon line between shades of light and dark,
the alcohol-less liniment of confusion still, nonetheless,
inebriates the wildly drowsed minds from last evening—
and people still cannot draw circles, triangles, squares, or even rectangles
properly. Their hands will shake if they try to draw,
not just because of the liquor; the chill of this heartwarming winter
has still taken its tolls on the limbs—each now frigid, immobile,
and, at once, molecules in them cease to move. In this midwinter scene,
the squirrels stand inscrutably, unwaveringly, by the undergrowth besides my feet,
with their arms levelling their heads, looking at me looking at them,
with no immediate exchanges at all. But, around them, the filberts are cracked
along their ridges; the earth around them are spattered with nuts.
The consortium of wide-eyed pigeons, and the timid, pearl-grey
mice afraid of daylight, are eagerly begging for some whole cashews
with their body protruding forwards as if gazing afar, with
noiseless chatters, and heat and sweat escaping from their forms.
They wait, and wait, as if, for them, winter is not gruesomely insufferable,
but a piece of string unwound boundlessly, so it is inevitable.
I, too, stand in the middle of the park, trailing with starch-less leaves,
thinking the forms of warmth they take, and those I have
inside my distended ribcages housing all the organs and melodies, which all
subtend and suspend my emotions, feeling the
slightest breeze in the air that soothes the soul, because
at this point, with time gone and time past, I have ascended and descended
all seven floors, again and again, thinking the whole has yet to exist
without passage of time churning all of these under its feet, looking
at the tiny animals yet to stop looking or searching,
and we have yet subsided.