Hunters in the Snow In the histories of hockey, there's scant mention of Bruegel's men home from the hunt. But follow their path, the line of trees down to the frozen expanse, and look closely: the townspeople are at play, three leaning into long sticks with familiar curves. They are too far off for the gallery to hear the thrust and scrape of spears, yet what else could the men be dreaming of? They've trudged long, daylight lingers, and the fire at the inn can wait. Time now to glide like a bird— there’s one, it cuts across the icy grey of the early evening sky. first published in Memewar magazine, Fun & Games edition, 2010
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superb!! both poem and painting. Gets me looking and laughing, joyful, precise, and fun! Thanks. rob