The air is moist and grey
Light colours the tree trunks black,
The hemlocks darkest green.
The only sound is the regular beep, beep, beep
Of the dump truck snow plow reversing below in the valley, an electronic tune
In the dark dawn.
Then black ravens call call call
Across the hillside
While school bus labours up the hill roaring.
I walk carefully on the slippery snow, the
Sleeves of my jacket pushed up, the throat open,
Mittens wet with cloud condensation.
We’re under the weather here, the top
Of the hill white-grey shrouded
When the school bus descends,
I meet it coming ‘round and give the driver a V for victory,
“You made it!”
For the hill is steep and the snow slippery,
and because I feel that
We are here.