Late White

What most of us wish to be the last week of late snow may have been the loveliest of the year...deep, white powder laying quiet and heavy on the meadow, on the tree branches.

And now it goes disappearing by handfuls, by the crate, by the barrel, by the cargo container, leaving us instead in the storm called modern life.  Watching deer run across these past evening's white meadow seems outside the realm of the possible compared to living under the banner of internet headline news.  But oh how alive and entirely themselves they were.

The Swedish poet Tomas Transtromer listens to Haydn, comes to write in Allegro

'...the sound says that freedom exists
and someone pays no taxes to Casear.'

I watch these deer.