45
Hunting Season
In the light of the street-lamp a dozen leaves
cling to the twigs of our tree for dear life;

an eager star is dogging the moon.

46
Feast, you who cross the bridge
this cold twilight
on these honeycombs of light, the buildings of Manhattan.

47
I thought for a moment. 
The bush in the backyard has blossomed:
it was only some of the old leaves covered with snow.

48
This smoky winter morning—
do not despise the green jewel shining among the twigs
because it is a traffic light.