Warnings of snow. Flurries of messages. Snow 10 miles north, 10 miles south.
Postings of snow. The back door grinds on its hinges. Wood at the edges,
paint gnawed away. Clear plastic sack for paper and plastic, ice-water
gathered, collected in cool pockets and rucks. No sign, hint in the sky.
The fire sings a song of clean oak. Blurring from journeying:
drove by North Cottage tonight. No lights - not that
it would change things if there were. Have to pass,
keep moving by the burial mounds
the long buried bones
before home that waits finding its
own cool level: makes
of us what it will.