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.
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