The plow drones through before dawn
blinking amber, like an owl robbed by
a cat strike of one eye and made to
search for dinner face-aslant. Upstairs,
that same light circumnavigates gray walls,
accelerates through corners, as if afraid
of being captured like the rings trapped
by the pair of swollen knuckles dozing
there beneath Egyptian cotton sheets.
The forecast didn’t auger this much snow,
as it also sometimes fails to warn of cats with
razors mounted on their front paws. A renewed
search for a missing doll awaits, ideal proportions
and runway face dropped from a backpack
somewhere between the mailbox
and the driveway. A child wakes, remembers,
and prepares unknowingly for grown-up losses.
The plow, three neighborhoods away, winks
into different windows, its blade designed
to set aside whatever’s fallen, as blame
accumulates behind half-lidded blinds.
About Ed Granger
