The car led us to a lane where we had, the ice making the wheels spin,
to take it easy. We descended a hill that had more curves than a mirrored slide.
Who was driving? Doesn't matter. The entrance to a farm,
the farmer in the yard with a long beard like a wizard.
He even held a staff-like stick.
The first flakes of snow whirling about him.
The farm track, white compact. And out of nowhere,
the barn owl, a ghost, floated just above the white compact.
The eerie silence, the world stopping.
White and compact, mirrors of ice,
the first snow flakes whirling about us.