Solstice By Linda Mills Woolsey In the mud room the mercury's red trace droops—eighteen degrees, and falling. The white side yard is webbed and frayed by rabbit feet and blown snow licks the wound at the base of the youngest maple. In the spirea, rumpled sparrows hunch on brittle stems, awaiting pity's seed. Why don't they all just bolt—flow south as fast as wing and foot can fly— at the first touch of frost? At least barn swallows have sense enough to vanish neatly. Even the sun has fled as far as earth's wanderings allow. But in their blood these winter creatures know the turning sky, and stand their ground. White-tailed deer nuzzle the buried field, scraping a skin of snow from the bruised edge of the frozen wood. In the dining room a furled bud breaks from the green sleep of the cyclamen, lifting white hands in the wintry light. In the dark cupboard beside the sink, a single bulb of garlic sprouts every last clove bursting madly green.