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.