The automatic radio wakes me with a blizzard closing schools across five distant states, where farmers with hungry livestock chop icy bales of hay with chain saws. Reports quick and cold thud against the almost-dawn like a rancher’s shovel on the carcasses of drift-buried cattle. I think I could not open my eyes to it without warm, burrowed sleep at the end of the day to melt away doing and duty like frost, without a brilliant morning-moon in a still-dark sky to plant stars in the crystals of the snow.
Copyright 1999 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in the 2000 Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar