Shape of a scarecrow propped up in a field just seen through the falling snow and the remaining light, and you are inside with static on the radio but you like the hush, that sweep that sounds like winter or a curling brush on ice as shown on CBC that television that comes over the lake from Canada. What can you do with light now that your mother’s gone and you still sit on the couch thinking of her and how she sat on the couch. What can the waning light do with you as it comes through snow, emanated from the sun a thousand miles away. What is your father doing upstairs in the attic with the transistors and the geodes and the lighted dials, the microphones. What is your brother dreaming of on the couch as he sleeps and leaves a sweaty mark in the shape of a comma which will show when he gets up. What is in the mouths of all the taxidermied deer propped up in terrifying poses—if a deer can be in a terrifying pose. And what is in your thoughts on Liz that unknown X.