After Snow

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. Now.

We are here.