It's Still Life

Bruegel Narrates Hunters in the Snow

Down by the stony road
where the trees grow
snowy twigs, and the frozen
creek babbles in its baffling
string-like voice, and tiny
flickering candles defy
the winter gloom from thatched
roof houses, and the north wind
scrapes an alto low moan from God’s

own rudder-spiked mountains
that spill chills on the good brothers
of the monastery, where
only music, and no words, sing
human duets in this
unhurried landscape.

And then he leans back on his stool,
adds a dab more white snow,
and signs his painting.