after Jimmy Santiago Baca

Today, running along the creek, I have a lot to be mad about, a lot to pop open a bottle about,                                         the sunlight traipsing through                                         but the trees won’t have it,                                         their steepled ceiling refuses                                         to keep me blind to the way ice layers                                         along the creek edges like shelves—                                         bracket fungi gone alabaster.

I am masked for the winter. I could feel caged. I could feel suffocated,                                         but below thirty-two, air cools the clouds of my breath                                         to crystals on my lashes. They catch the starlight                                         and moonbeams and I am the fairy face of winter.                                         How can I be mad, all silver sparkling like that?