For Evans
Our skis barely made a sound on snow
Probably we’ll find out when we get home.
A curtain of snow blew down from white pines
I’m sure she’ll call right away.
We cut a trail through fresh snow
It’s good to be out.
I think he’s gone now.
Maybe I shouldn’t have said it,
though saying didn’t make it more or less true.
The last snow clouds blew over as we crossed the meadow.
My hands are cold, she said,
then only breath and snow
as we crossed back to the pine wood.
A barred owl!
He turned his black eyes to us,
perched high on a white pine branch,
barred breast, face circled by black feathers.
Shouldn’t we get home?
Yes, it’s time.
The owl spread its long wings and flew
silent as snow up over the pines
He’s gone now.
I know.
