The birches stand in their beggar's row：
Each poor tree
Has had its wrists nearly
Torn from the clear sleeves of bone，
These icy trees
Are hanging by their thumbs
Under a sun
That will begin to heal them soon，
Each will climb out
Of its own blue， oval mouth；
The river groans，
Two birds call out from the woods
And a fox crosses through snow
Down a hill； then， he runs，
He has overcome something white
Beside a white bush， he shakes
It twice， and as he turns
For the woods， the blood in the snow
Looks like the red fox，
At a distance， running down the hill：
A white rabbit in his mouth killed
By the fox in snow
Is killed over and over as just
Two colors， now， on a winter hill：
Two colors！ Red and white. A barber's bowl！
Two colors like the peppers
In the windows
Of the town below the hill. Smoke comes
From the chimneys. Everything is still.
Ice in the river begins to move，
And a boy in a red shirt who woke
A moment ago
Watches from his window
The street where an ox
Who's broken out of his hut
Stands in the fresh snow
Staring cross-eyed at the boy
Who smiles and looks out
Across the roof to the hill；
And the sun is reaching down
Into the woods
Where the smoky red fox still
Eats his kill. Two colors.
Just two colors！
A sunrise. The snow.