Before the Blizzard

Waiting in front of the fire for the storm to hit,

drinking wine and nibbling a dish of nuts.

I’ve thrown a thick log on the blaze,

Unsplit. Now I’m wondering

which tree it came from. And when.

I saw the first flake two hours ago,

while we were walking down by the creek.

A loner. A scout. The avant garde.

Hooded mergansers were drifting in pairs;

(I’d forgotten how beautiful they are.)

 We met a couple on the trail

who’d seen a brown creeper!

(Did I hear crane croaking in the distance,

Moving north above the clouds?)

 I’m reading a biography of Li Po. It fits the mood.

Now Hilary’s in the kitchen nixing dough.

The pasta machine’s clamped firmly in place.

The pesto thaws as the world turns white again.