Stills of winter 
In the volumes of unlaughed 
Untested or untold 

Where do they go 

Do they cling to the air 
Or make a loop of their own 

Where the cold ends 
Does it end at all 

Or is it a secret known 
As Chekhov once wrote 
To the migrating birds only and sole 

Migrating birds that flock as one 
Or take wing alone
Breathless yet unwavering  
To reach what they remember once was 

As a desire caught up in a freeze frame 
In silence, in all its burden and despair
In a standstill 
Out in the cold 

Stills of winter 
Where do they go