The goats have taken to the roofs,
because the ground has more ice
each day. They curl together
on corrugated tin for warmth.

The days are sunny enough
but the ice grows at night.
It laces around the river's edge,
frames oval stones, braces mud,

and makes a shelf over water.
I watch as the ice softens
in the heat of noon, tiny Antarctica,
and finger-sized bergs break

and ride the current. I know so little
about ice; my land is dry and hot.
I know nothing about goats.
In the mountains far above us,

glaciers slacken and retreat.