There was, this evening,
a ring around the moon.
I knew, at noon,
it would be there,
felt it coming as the air
went frigid damp,
as the sky changed blues,
a gradual morph of hues,
until, at dusk, a gray shroud
muffled sunset into slate.
Old snow crunched underfoot
as I tramped from feeder to feeder,
filling them, as panic struck birds
had frenzied seed all day.
Freeze came, like smoke,
seeping beneath my fleese coat, gloves, scarf.
Then as my wife and I
dozed down under down quilts,
white blankets, sheets, pillows of snow fell,
burying the moon, the ring, spilled seeds, footprints.

All is midnight now, snow, woodstove glow,
silent but for the wind, the snapping fire,
the pine needles tap against window panes.

Yet, sure as morning’s coming,
my neighbor, before snow stops falling,
digging his path to the road,
will wave, shout through our boundary pines,

“Ain’t this somethin’? Damn radio didn’t say
nothin’ ’bout snow!
Who’d a’thought it, after all that
blue sky yesterday?”

I’ll smile, nod, wave, go inside
to chuckle over all the folks
who never, ever
see it coming.