Some who live here have started already
to migrate south, often in breeding pairs.
Snow birds, though they fly from snow.
Mostly white, many older, letting others
fly, feed and care for them.
Photo of Denali by Tim Rains, National Park Service.
And suddenly, summer green becomes autumn orange.
Termination dust, that Alaskan high altitude snow
signals summer’s end. But not here. Now.
No mountaintops. Just lawns and fallen leaves.
No blueberries for bear’s dessert before hibernation.
Marking the day by the piling snow.
Breakfast dusted the grass and speckled sidewalks.
Lunch soup, and a blanketed picnic table.
By tea time, pillows on lawn chairs.
Night baffled and warm, a world asleep.
Overnight, more snow fell lightly by moonlight.
Enough to erase all traces of yesterday.
Enough for fox to mark his domain again,
for squirrel to forget, make me want
to fill white space with unspoken words.
The pussy willow showed its furry catkins
early during a warm February week and
are now covered with heavy March snow.
We want to be optimistic. The universe
sometimes agrees – and sometimes laughs at us.