It’s two o’clock: the woman gazes out
into the storm, wind driving the snow
into deep drifts along fences. You know,
he said that morning before going out
into the blizzard to check the cattle
huddled behind the wind-break he built three
summers ago, while she, sipping ice-tea,
sat under the maples, listening to the rattle
of the wind-chimes he had bought for
her last birthday, too large to move, the sun
too hot, just waiting, waiting for the day
her child would be born, and after that two more,
twins; You know, he said, reaching for the gun
to shoot the coyote, You’re beautiful today.
Published in diverge 2(Summer 1996): 70.
