Snow falls in slowmo
the linked fence posts capped like chefs
and cheerful in the buffered fields
and all the backroads knee deep
in muffled silence

occasional tires sing
some squeaky a cappella
or murmur past in a muted
hum the odd jingle
of chains and everywhere
the people pitch themselves
against shovels to dig a neighbour
free of a drift pushed up
by a government plow.

Under cover of snow
a softer harmonic yet
moves between the mittened hands
and scarfbound throats
the black tip of the weasel’s tail
disappears under barn boards piled
white the raven’s glassy eye
catches light from somewhere
whether the branches bent double
with the weight of this blessing
or else the perpendicular stare
of power poles
seeing for the first time
how they are
joined each to other
by an arc of snow.

– Derek Hanebury.


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