The frenzied motion of the swarm
Has been stilled.
Bees, huddle in layers, sloughing off as the living bundle freezes from outside in.
Icicles, and the slow rise of melted fluid on my roof,
The drop that succumbs, finally releasing its grip on its former life.
Does it feel like a death, this falling?
Does matter delude itself into thinking it has dreams? Do I?
I know that a corral has no roof.
And even in the snow, there is an ultra violet compass that points home.
Are my cold hands nimble enough to open the latch on the gate?