December 18

It’s been snowing for five days, off and on. This morning my daughter called us all to see the dawn—winter’s hot pink slash behind the eastern trees—but now gentle flakes fall on the orchard. Not the small, determined, I-will-bury-you-so-deep-it’ll-be-June-before-they-find-you kind, but the fluffy ones that stick to the apples still in the trees, a small tuft for each burble of dried goldenrod, a veil over the grasses, like another round of seeds from those brittle golden stalks.

The survivors of

rifle season sleep under

snowy apple trees.

December 9

A crunchy day, mist hanging thick over the ice and snow. The winter apples, still on the trees, have a sheen of freeze on them, like glass peaches, or Christmas ornaments.

 Light wind tries to stir

the beech branches. The trees and

I—all stiff with cold.

December 1

Sparkly morning. An inch of fresh overnight powder on top of the crunchy base of days gone by. The weather has cleared out and little chips of sun wink everywhere. The birch trees are white and black against the clean blue sky. Then, a familiar sound…but surely not? Yes! Two Vs of geese, traveling high and fast above the hill, their white underwings blinking on and off, the whole line twinkling along. Ninety-nine Canadas and one snow, hauling hard to the south, diamond necklace of the air.

Belated snow goose,

tardy pearl—your practical

cousins left long since.