They told me you had left on the train that starless night
when the wind blew shingles from our roof
and snow fell and fell.
I may have heard a whistle in the darkness.
I may have been dreaming when you reached the station,
when you walked to the village, leaving tracks along the way.
Maybe the streets were empty.
Not even the plows were out and you sat in the hotel bar
chatting with a girl in a white dress and a fire tattoo
who burned as you talked about thick flakes falling.
“It looks pretty,” you said
but she wondered if it ever would stop.
“This may be the final snow, the one that buries us all.”
You clinked glasses and drifted into the night, lighting up the storm.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize.
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