Walking in plunging cold, hindered by
an arctic parka, ski mask, gloves, and sunglasses;
nose bare, boots breaking through wind-crusted snow,
and foundering like a cow in the softness below;
An old woman is a poor icebreaker.
Zeros dash across the days of the week: snow falls like dust some mornings,
the atmosphere so cold that crystals won’t grow, but in a stony field,
is a field of frost; a carpet of crystals like the wings of white moths
at rest on the snow, motionless and sun flashing.
Trucks have come this way, digging deep into the mud; throwing rocks,
the sage brush crushed and splintered, the road lost –
half bushes remain, the rest flattened.