Frost’s sharp teeth close over

the skin of our cheeks and we hurry through the

half-world that is soaked in wintry

dimness— we are aware of how the forest

creeps closer in the night, its winds

rushing ahead, carrying a keen that whips up into a spectral howl

as, near-dead, the coyote drops its head and in

a stupour stalks easy feline prey. The frigid rage

of starvation has shattered its other instincts with

an ice pick’s precision. We have no

satisfaction to give the dark’s endless hunger. The leaves

that rot beneath the snow are a sacrifice to

the mercy of spring; a prayer to save us from the winter’s blow.

———-

Based on

Over the wintry

Forest, winds howl in rage

With no leaves to blow.

by Natsume Sōseki