Arkansas is wrapped in snow this merry Christmas morning. City sounds are faint, few, a long distance away. No footprints disturb the lawn, not even those of the white mama possum who searches for cat food in the night. Like fog on "little cat feet", the snow has taken us from the South to the Artic in a few dark hours.
The sun rises, glaring, curious as to what poet has written out of place to change the greens and rusts of autumn to winter. The roads will clear later, leaving snow ripe for rolling and stacking into snow families. Soon our neighborhood band of little boys will race through the slush, kick their balls, and swagger into loaded bushes to watch the white flocking fly into the air.
Now is the moment to write poetry, while neither warm air nor visitors distract.
Merry Christmas! May your household be full of surprises.
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