A wet heavy snow that promised to be a blizzard has instead fallen early this morning like globs of that puffy insulation they blow into the ceilings of gymnasiums--buffering the noise of chickadees, woodpeckers and cardinals chirping out their happy busy-day song.
I walk along the road, let the dog run wild over the softening furrows of the field, spy an abandoned nest in the crook of a tiny tree, and grieve a little for the loss of nearby fencerows and forest giants hacked to pieces by county bushwhacking machines, loggers and farmers this past year. I try not to think about the dozens of marked "men" standing in wait of felling over there. . .
I wish they could all just crumble slowly over time like this one; the sycamore I carved my initials into along with those of a blue-eyed boy in fourth grade.
Choices BY TESS GALLAGHER
I turn the ring of the jam jar like a scrapbook page and day dream of strawberries as a fresh crop of snow swirls down out of the sky.