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Surreal Winter
Quasi cavern of echoes
just below iced concrete,
thunders eerily over the lake bed
desolate, crying, singing her cold song.
There’s warning in her pitch,
horses smell with nervous expectation,
anticipating birds flock eastward—
they know it’s coming, it’s coming.
Goose down feathers fall heavy,
wet, sticking to fields and trees,
freezing its tongue to metal
cars and flagpoles and railroad tracks.
Deer pile sleepily in leafy beds,
hen and cock pheasants huddle
beneath tall firs offering umbrellas,
quail shelter along fence rows and stile—
they know it’s coming, it’s coming.
Howling wind, westward velocity,
snow boulders toss happily in fields,
placating rough edges along terrain,
pelting like sand, blinding the blind.
Falling ash, blowing ash, nuclear winter
in December. Wall of white at arm’s length
and death beyond its horizon.
Boot tracks amble through the darkness
are filled greedily with its camouflage,
master of deception, a skillful ambush—
he knows it’s coming, it’s coming.
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