Drywater
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é, from a series
I’m in sandals.
Mid-morning.
Thoughts of Midgard
and Northmen.
And sturdystock;
Noresemen.
I’m sweeping snow.
In the morning sun.
I guessed it’d be easier
to sweep than cut in
at the heels and lift.
And turn.
And toss.
Then cut in again.
I sweep.
Some geese call out from the
hazy near-beyond.
Returnéd from
their night of snow.
From wherever they ever go.
And extend their webbed feet,
so made for water.
So smooth.
So broad.
So slick.
And find
...well...
they do find water.
A flash-frozen pond.
A crackening rather than a splashering.
I wonder if they’d notice.
I wonder when they know.
That snow means ice.
And if they entertain a
moment’s surprise.
At finding dry feet.
And stiff-plane pond.
I sweep the snow
The birds skate and wait.
For sun to lower them.
Into the wet.
By a few more feet.
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2018
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