Snow Plow

Michael Hall

I used to wrestle at my old high.
And now I wrestle with this
Country, which needs winter

As it does the morning.
Fields and woodlots begin
To reveal themselves

Like a map
Reversed to give the sky
Somewhere to form.

North, glows Stratford.
In the east, stars
Are running

Out of chain. Soon Erie
And Main –
Rattling, rumbling, rasping

Beneath. Then
At Tim Hortons, the side streets:
Silent houses at dawn

Stoops restful with snow
Cars sleeping
In beds of driveways

Uncleared.
In drifting-sifting yards
Birches straggle

Before, home,
The sun
Poking now its orange sticks

Rises
Out working the horizon
Along one side

Of the houses
All
Aflame.