P. V. Beck has published poetry, essays, articles, translations, young-adult novel, and works of non-fiction.
In the Deep Midwinter
The earth stalled on the longest night of the year creaking at its old poles,
a ball of ice too tired to roll over.
Deep below zero Fox exhales ice, her fur is thick as snow.
She hears no fibrillating heart beats, no scurls or scurry, only a
silent frozen scape waiting for a pulse of heat.
Bear in their caves, mice in their tunnels. Deep and hushed and ancient the
heart slows to the pace of creation.
Fox pushes through the snow to the emptiness where the pond used to
be—a cat-tailed moonscape, a tangle of elk hairs locked in ice.
Her aching breath and hunger pull at her.
A winter that escapes itself in sleep and then awakens, that’s what we
cherish. That moment something moves in the corner of the eye, a
flurry or flight, the folding over of cusp and quarry
on that longest night.