Winter Nights

I dream of miles of loamy soil
and potatoes in their winter beds,
their eyes still sealed quite shut. 
Crows pick through stones for seeds 
and nuts. I know sometimes they tear
small animals furtive in the grass,
while in our houses we dunk chunks
of bread in hot soup. Impartial,
stars leak their shine upon us all. 
What luck to feel the thumb of sleep 
on our lids, the cold a mantle 
flung across every form.