ABlog

deer leaping over low snow
at sight of the brown bound I thought: dog
sign reads: CAUTION: GROOMING AT ANY HOUR
how slowly hills fold into sky
vertical weathered wood on the barn
horizontal weathered wood on the shed
three (3) great turbans—vents or fans—on roof of old barn
distant wails of the damned?—snowmobiles
truck stuck at edge of snow field
horses’ patient chewing
feed/manure mingle on the air
east, below cloud, a band of darkening blue
blur-moon (later)
a tree has patterned its shape after a twig-broom
what is this other sort that clutches many tan leaves?
the grizzled old pine, fiercely shaped
corn stubble, not so pretty but real
the tatty gabled house
a spill of light—a bleed
poinsettia inside on the table
yard fir Christmas lighted
dog lunging barking from front of dark cottage
the shapes of winter trees can’t fit into words
the cloud-shapes in the sky can’t either
besides, the clouds keep changing
with my empty-fingered glove, I salute all vehicles
my hidden fist hugs warmth
wind still
winter cords stacked under eaves of once-dwelling
what falls from sky is shape
light shining out from a crease in thigh of hill
so dark a thin branch whips my face—or face whips branch?
two horses with pale blazes on their muzzles
under tall black horse stomach, white bulge—pony belly
three noses point to the feed bale
hair shaggy on their legs
looking as though their life has become very slow—I wonder if winter pains them?
I go up to where I see more horses just under the barn—then turn around
remember my sister saying Alaska winters were all about sense deprivation
something that looks like a faint camera flash and I remember Reiko talking about the hibakushas’ stories—what they saw on that August morning
a lawn chair lolls, recreational in drifts
the glint of a mirror out of a lighted house in January
fear for the durability of a season
the long stretch of dusk under the trees—a light shines from behind me: reflection off the snow
faded red on the side of a barn—barely call it red
old farm equipment—four metal wheels, elegant arabesques flourishing in air
still that clutch when a car goes past on a deserted strip
I cross the main road into another world
not yet five o’clock
but civilized islets of light at stodgy lamp post intervals from Pratt Library all the way to the dorms.

Plainfield, Vermont