Читать книгу Waking - Ron Rash - Страница 15

No shade tree surgery could

revive its engine, so rolled

into the pasture, left stalled

among cattle, soon rust-scabs

breaking out on blue paint, tires

sagging like leaky balloons,

yet when snow came, magical,

an Appalachian igloo

I huddled inside, cracked glass

my window as I watched snow

smooth pasture as though a quilt

for winter to rest upon,

and how quiet it was—the creek

muffled by ice, gray squirrels

curled in leaf beds, the crows mute

among stark lifts of branches,

only the sound of my own

white breath dimming the window.