Mid-December

BRUCE GUNTHER

The fresh snow on the sidewalk
bore the tracks of a man
with large feet who wore boots
that looked heavy, warm,
and dangerous. He’s left a trail
which we may follow but only
the squirrels seem interested
for now. The morning crow
perched in the skeletal branches
of the maple remains silent
and flutters its crepe paper wings.
Meanwhile, the neighbor smokes
a cigarette from his front porch;
clouds of smoke and breath
mingle as the sun rises carefully,
apologetic for the winter.