On a Sunday once through the balustrade a storm yet hours away reached out like God and the slave knew first climbing up the back stair just when the clouds would burst from a wren who fought the air back to her nest aside the slave quarters of the manse, a dome-like cave of weed-stalks and chance bits of errant fluff that held still her quiet eggs pink-spotted and rough in the wind that whispered riot.
Published in Volume 47.1 (Spring 2014)
North American Review
Summer 2014, Issue 299, No. 3
For two hundred years snow went missing from the English language. Travelers returned
from the circumpolar north tugged at collars and spoke instead of the land of crowberry wine
while those from the south were simply ignored as gibbering fools. Currier and Ives became famous
for their portraits of ash-strewn desolation inspiring, years later, a young Cormac McCarthy.
Whenever it would happen it would happen like this, denials and obfuscations as shallow
and deep as drifts. When Dylan asked something is happening but you don’t know what it is do you?
he was daring all the phonies to name it already, to quit gamboling around in shirtsleeves
as if the hemisphere hadn’t tilted, as if it didn’t tilt reliably every single goddamn year. Of course
now that we’ve regained our senses, repeating snowsnowsnow at the first sign of it, Dylan denies
that’s what he was singing about. I’m not a snow singer and I never was. Let everyone else sing about snow.