Record snow. Jagged timbers burst through the backbone
of the house. Reaching to turn on the power, I tumble into
a 10 foot snowbank. The summit at 14,000 feet, glaciers,
beds of ice, call for extra cognac. A blue weasel tries to look
invisible as it munches on smaller rodents. Through the
skylight, green and purple of Northern Lights fizz and hiss.
I brace myself on the ladder as I dab paint to cover gray mold.
After many years, I’ve grown indifferent to silt, pollen and dust.
I tremble when I think of failed Algebra; Wasn’t that the history
of Greece? The wine I order at the Turkish café is tart, mustard
yellow and thick. We’re Surprised! Coffee grounds and cigarette
butts clog the drain. Don’t ask me; I’m not responsible for keeping
score. I like the sound of rough-shod, the creak of a leather saddle.
Taking off your wool Pendleton, sparks shoot from broad shoulders.
On the porch, a pair of men’s shoes spattered with beaver fat.
Some say Northern Lights are toxic.
