Drywater

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.