The legs of the elk punctured the snow's crust And wolves floated lightfooted on the land Hunting Christmas elk living and frozen. Indoors snow melted in a basin and a woman basted A bird spread over coals by its wings and head. Snow had sealed the windows; candles lit The Christmas meal. The special grace chilled The cooked bird, being long-winded and the room cold. During the words a boy thought, is it fitting To eat this creature killed on the wing? For he had shot it himself, climbing out Alone on snowshoes in the Christmas dawn, The fallen snow swirling and the snowfall gone, Heard its throat scream as the rifle shouted, Watched it drop, and fished from the snow the dead. He had not wanted to shoot. The sound Of wings beating into the hushed morning Had stirred his love, and the things In his gloves froze, and he wondered, Even famishing, could he fire? Then he fired. Now the grace praised his wicked act. At its end The bird on the plate Stared at his stricken appetite. There had been nothing to do but surrender, To kill and to eat; he ate as he had killed, with wonder. At night on snowshoes on the drifting field He wondered again, for whom had love stirred? The stars glittered on the snow and nothing answered. Then the Swan spread her wings, cross of the cold north, The pattern and mirror of the acts of earth.