Not of the season, but ever.
Falling, like it did on unmanned
land, sometimes fluttering upwards
in a gentle spin of wind, feathered
and swirled as the first thought which
would come up in a much later snow when
Human appears and thinks I am a thing,
later, I will have a name and there will be
billions of me. The unthought thought,
of course, is how much clearer the snow
would sound without the thwack of an ax
or the crackle of fire, without the thud of boots
squealing the ice that has no choice but
to give in and split, when the wind itself
remembers being wordless and clean.
