SMALL THINGS
To die on a winter’s night
And know that your last breath
Will be eaten by a million
Cold and hungry stars.
These flakes of furred life
Curled around their small souls
Encircled by great horizons
That ever suck the warmth
From fast-beating hearts.
No hardship, though, in letting go.
In leaving the fury, in leaving
The dawn cold to other hunters
And the sharp songs in bare branches
And the sharp eyes longing to peck.
To need no need now, to rise and fly,
To become incorporeal, incorporated
In the memory of an ever-loving world,
The blanketed round and sweet murmured world.
_
simonhlilly 
Feels like something I should have been proud to have written.
Nice of you to say so, Ben. It more or less wrote itself as I stepped out night before last into the first frosty night of the year.
Yes, I know that kind of poem. 🙂