Wood smoke hangs in a blue haze outside,
and far off
a chain saw buzzes through the air.
An empty coop in our backyard is covered in snow
like a tiny alpine chalet,
but in the spring it will be filled with turkeys.
My lips stick to my teeth
and my nostrils are stuck shut. My chest hurts
when I breathe this icy air.
I’ll warm up by making a snowman.
This snow is too deep for rolling three balls for his body,
so I pack it into a mound,
then sculpt him with my hands.
I pack a lemon-size ball for his nose, poke holes for his eyes,
and draw a big smile with my thumb.
By the time I’m done,
my skin prickles with sweat under my clothes,
my nose runs,
and my legs shudder.
A boy steps out of the house next door
and kicks snow down the back steps.
The dog from last night bursts past him,
toppling the boy to the snow.
“Pattress!” he calls, laughing.
But she wanders away from him, snuffling
like a steam train.
Even across our wide yards, I can see
the boy’s cheeks are red on his pale skin,
slapped by the cold.
Pattress wags her long, pointy tail.
“Hi,” I say, raising my hand, sniffling.
The boy raises his hand and nods, then
goes back into the house,
calling, “Come on, Pattress.”
The brown dog looks at me, then at the steps,
and follows the boy inside.