Glory-of-the-Snow by Terry Bain


April First

A squirrel met his demise
crossing the road in front of our

house, reminding me they are
scrambling to survive, digging

out caches and 
eating and fucking and

dashing into the road
to be killed by cars. The

tide of snow has gone out 
and though I imagine it gone for good

we sometimes do have weather 
so fierce and unexpected

even in April 
that I do not put away the

shovel and ice melt until 
the crocus and glory-of-the-snow

come and go and the tulips 
begin to show their color’s cohort.

I’ve set the table onto our 
wobbly patio and cleaned

winter’s stockpile of 
dog shit

from the yard,
a worthy test of human

companionship. When
the apple blossoms come I’ll think

“we should do something to 
keep them

from filling with worms” 
but I am uncertain how, except to

curse the worms’ persistence. The
movement of earth

as bulbs bound forth and 
weeds jump up

reminds the pain in my hip
that we’ve been here but a little while,

and we’ll be here barely longer, 
that the tide of snow will

eventually return 
heavy enough

to bury us, 
and if I leave the squirrel killed

in the road
in front of the house,

the crows may come 
pick it away or

the dog might chase them off. She’s
a good dog, but

she does not know 
nor care about

the purpose of crows.

Terry Bain is the author of You Are a Dog and We Are the Cat ‡ TwitterInstagramLetterboxdTinyLetter
Copyright 2019 Terry Bain