The Snowpeeler comes with effortless motion.
Lance tips pierce with virgin snow.
The white dust cloud puffs behind--
Hangs for a moment--then floats back;
Not as it was--
For now the signs of passing snow, the first has been.
The Snowpeeler pauses.
The snowbucket covers the land's harshness hidden below,
The naked trees stand, tapped with frost sparkling halos,
Casting long shadows over the cloudy whiteness.
The lightrays dance on sprinkled crystals across the smooth soft surface.
The low sunhaze throws through--bright, still, airstand cold.
The Snowpeeler moves.
What sound is snow?
The silence of it falling? The sound of clouds?
"Skeegh"--snow or ski? The union of the two?
Puffs of ghost appear at every breath, a moment there, then gone.
Only the beard, with white ghost dust, records the passage.
The Snowpeeler stops.
Look at the colors--white and black.
Breathe is the emptiness.
Feel the solitude.
Listen to the echoes of silence.