In yard-high drifts,
the small chittering tracks of a resident rabbit,
filling in quickly with the blowing snow.
I follow, stupidly bootless,
right around the house
until I see where it shelters.
Our spreading birch, in this blizzard,
shows out as a sketchy charcoal drawing,
and our miserable cat stares out
from the orangey warmth of the living room.
I plod up to the glass door, open it,
and ask my wife for carrots and lettuce.
Are you hungry?…she says.
