by JB Taylor, USA
Snow clouds pump overhead, turgid mix of low nimbus in serious grays ash slate pewter hues. Shadows somersault in the layers. Wind rolls over dormant fields, long ago cleared for crops, howls as it circles the farmhouse. Howls—yes, howls like a wolf iced in pelted snow. Blizzard days. Back door blocked by a moguled slope as if fairy skiers have slalomed a mountain. The world frosted. Panic. The road choked by snow and a baby coming or a grandmother rasping with pneumonia. Help a world of white away. Still snow into March after the groundhog sees his shadow on that one sunshine day. Legend, superstition so often turns to truth. But that was February before weather mocked the calendar. Now the groundhog doesn’t bother to leave his burrow. Though snow clouds sometimes roam the sky, blizzard is a rare-heard word. Jack Frost no longer paints wings on window panes. Daffodils bloom the redbud bursts and February is often spring.