MORNING
The wind lies still.
It has not gone away
I know,
for I can feel it
lying there outside
hiding in the snow.
The wind lies still
behind the snowdrifts,
but sometimes
it starts up
with a low cry,
then falls again to hide.
Cold bends over the land.
The white feathers of snow
fall slower and slower.
My mother and my father
get up early.
My mother will kill a sheep
so my father can eat
something
before he starts
for the Trading Post.
My father waits
for my mother
to butcher the sheep
and to cook a piece
for his breakfast.
Then my father finds his horse.
He ties an empty flour sack
behind his saddle.
He wraps his blanket about him
and leaning his body
against the storm
he rides to the Trading Post.
My father rides
into the snow-filled world.
His blanket and his horse
are the only colors
moving
through the white.
Snow comes into my heart
filling it with cold
when I see
my father ride away.
