SNOW DAYS UP NORTH
By Raymond Luczak
Image description: In this mostly monochromatic wide shot, a cluster of trees enmeshed together as if in a dense chorus line from a distance are laced with snow under a white-gray sky. The whiteness of treetops almost blend into the sky itself.
Pulled up into long johns, zipped into
snowmobiler’s pants, ski cap pulled tight
down to my eyebrows, layered mittens strung
like telephone wires inside my jacket, I was
ready to do battle in the great wilderness
across the street. Soldier trees huddled,
stamping their feet. Rabbit pellets dotted
and disappeared. Shades of white
and gray mingled, its cold kisses
a shudder against skin in sagged socks
when clumps slipped into my boots.
A tree branch then clacked its rifle
right at my tiny sliver of nakedness
hidden in my pulled-up collar.
A bullet of ice had hit its target.
It took minutes to pull off my four mittens
only to find I couldn’t reach behind my neck.
My bulletproof armor was too thick.
Its chill, melting, slithered and itched my back.
The winds jounced between my legs,
machine-gunning snow up into my eyes.
I was shot down. Dead, I raised my hands
to the clouds and fell forward into the puff
of icy feathers. I rubbed my face in its pillow
until a blanket of warmth overtook me.
Dying was so wonderful on days like these.
Raymond Luczak is the author and editor of 25 titles, including Compassion, Michigan: The Ironwood Stories (Modern History Press) and once upon a twin: poems (Gallaudet University Press). He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.