Across the wires, white hairs rest,
caught in red on the barbs.
Her scent lingers near the fence,
worked through stake and spars.
I lift the axe to the moon,
a circle rests in the blade,
hangs there like a pale rune
before the stroke is made.
She stares behind a tree,
snow gives beneath her weight:
she sees the ice break free,
beneath the moonless blade.
Her hips shift; she glides down
across the frozen ground.