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Thirty Inches of Snow

I have to step gingerly
Into the shed. Around the bike.
To get the shovel.

Right now, in the face of this unexpected tundra
The chrome and black,
The windshield and saddlebags
All this is so much garden statuary
A symbol of some far off Spring day
When this muffled whiteness
Will give way to a rough, low rumble.

Cast through the streets like a stylized cat
I'll shift into third and lope onto the highway
The warm draft will disappear over my shoulder
With the passing mile markers
And somewhere in the very back
Of my ride-induced smile
Will be the whiteout memory
Of shoveling snow.