Sky Ghosts

The drifts move their white weight as if the heaps themselves were snowplows. Again the sky dumps afterthoughts, the packed mounds are remodeled under new wind-plantings. When the land is a white-out, perception seeks color, every dot of pigmentation creates a brilliant question mark on a blank field. There are freely moving ghosts in the swirling air. I listen to the roof creaking, as they land looking for their sky-blue eye.