Poetry and Poetics
Wind chill warning. I pass a half-dozen wrecks,
a jack-knifed semi, a sports car spilt in half,
driverless. Crossing the bridge, I look down
on the white bend of the frozen Raccoon River.
50 below zero. Flocks of Canada geese
huddle, hundreds of dark rumps on the ice,
steam rises from them like mist off a waterfall,
a hundred ghosts unwrapped from their packages.
© by Heather
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