A gentle powdering of snow
overnight, like talc on a baby’s bottom.
Enough to show there are no footprints
outside my door,
or under my bedroom window.
I find that reassuring, as most would.
Still, crows are about, in lower air. Snow
is a background against which
they can remind us that black is beautiful.
“In your own way,”
I concede, from behind my windowpane.
An ambulance happens by
without red lights on: either the urgency
is no emergency, or else EMTs
are heading to McDonald’s for breakfast.
When I open the window, snow lies on
the sill. I write my name.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire, where he helps judge Poetry Out Loud competitions. His latest poetry books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
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