Spring in Maine

Blowing across the land the snow discloses 
    contours of terrain not clearly seen 
till now, and builds on pre-existent forms 
    its own white ribs and spines. If spirit 
moved on the waters, surely it moved like this 
    white wind, which rises from the ice-spots in 
a swirl and tumbles forward,
    spilling in white waves across the yard.
Like smoke it rises and like smoke runs down 
    gulleys and troughs of its own making, 
catching declining light. And now the wind 
    subsides, and each white ridge 
stands still. Yet all around lies evidence
    of movement, written in buttes and ruts. If spirit 
ever should seek inscriptions of itself 
    or seek a human meaning
it is in these shifting glyphs, these risen lines.


Evidence of Movement, by Ben Howard


No lie it's pretty cold out there right now.