The week-old snow is grimy
And left in banks by the street plow
The sidewalks are covered, so
I carry a walking stick in the evening
And slam the point into the ice shelves
At the edge of the street
With every step.
The air is warm above the ground
And the snowmelt blackens the pavement
As it flows to the drains.
This evening is soft on every edge
The sky powder blue
The pink pastel dusk light
Tints the western hillsides
Across the valley the hillside has melted
Here and there and the forest floor is
Mottled grey and white
Like the haunch of an Appaloosa
On a side street just before sundown
I see the silhouettes of two young boys
Who run through the soft snow and the soft air
As if they knew spring was coming.