Who among us doesn’t live
at the end of a snowy road
surrounded by wild things:
winged things, bushy tailed things
snorting things, full sprint running things
that for all their wildness
go about evading death
with the utmost quietness.
In the morning Anna the painter
made French toast with sourdough bread.
There was also maple syrup and bananas.
I had porridge before that, an entire bowl.
Which made the French toast a second breakfast.
And I had seconds on the French toast.
I was the one that bandaged the boy’s head
and brought him down in a rescue sled
and called for the ambulance
and administered oxygen
out of the hissing green cylinder.
The boy was unusually quiet
which worried me a little.
Until I remembered how quiet
are the wild things
when sprinting across snowy roads
chased only by their shadow.