Back Soon; Driving—

The way the present cuts into history,

or how the future can look at first

like the past sweeping through, there

are blizzards, and there are blizzards.

Some contain us; some we carry

within us until they die, when we do.

The snow falls there, barely snowing,

into a long wooden trough where

the cattle feed on those apples we

used to call medieval, or I did,

for their smallish size, as if medieval

meant the world in miniature but

not so different otherwise from

our own, just smaller, a bit sweeter,

more prone therefore to rot quickly,

which is maybe not the worst thing.

Revelation is not disclosure. I love

how the snow, taking itself now more

seriously, makes the cattle look softer,

for a moment, than their hard bodies are.