The black dog dives,

parts the frothy foam of

crystal and accumulation

drives the fluff of temporary

isolation into faulty walls that

slither into avalanche, then

fade to paths packed

by sloshing boot and nimble paw.

The bird jots its hasty

note in jigs and

jags, in exclamation and

burst, across ephemeral

powdered page

blown out of existence

by erasure, white slate

swept empty.

The wind strikes the freshly fallen flakes

free from the stricture of sculpted form,

gathers a body load of frilly

frosted air, twirls its catch to some

driven beat, flinging the white

feathers like a castoff heart,

the art of snow

is its art-less-ness.

There are shapes

in the icicles—visions,

cities.

Snow falling all around.

Silent the pines.

It comes, white-capping the fields

to let us know summer is done.

There is no looking back now.

Only forward creep into frozen

leaf, iron time, the blue-blank

sweep of winter. And how wonderful

to let it go: the mad dash of activity,

of everyone kissing everyone

at the river. Now, let what is difficult

come. Let the feast be white and

within; stark; spare; ancient. Let

the hunger well up and fill us, and fill us.

Our best

entertainment

since the power went out

is watching

the squirrels…

…this beautiful

black one—tail

like a feather—

skates along

the top of deep snow

running without a trace

straight up the tree

straight into the sky.