An Open Place

Thundersnow. Lightning. Lightening. The snow makes everything quiet, muffles the noise. What comes first the thunder or the heat. The thunder or the flash. The flash or electricity drop. Pole struck. Mayday. Enter: three bearded ladies. Enter: the lights all out for miles and miles. Snow up to varicose veins. One says: What’s that sound? What snow is this? When will I see you again? Two says: Ballyhoo. But, what I mean is: there will come another day. Three says: By the days end. What day? What snow? One says: Where? Two says: The marshlands of forest fire, the ash of the trees. Three says: To run into Mayks. First says: Leave me to my cat, I want to go home. He hates the thunder! He hates the snow! He hates the fire even more! Two says: Leave me to my guinea pig. They snort and skuff all night. Inches turn to feet. Together, they lock arms, and watch as the trees fall by flame. No amount of snow’s reprieve. They sigh a collective say. Together: It all comes to get you in the end. They hover above the wet ground, toes turning toward themselves, legs spirals, a wet humid fog, choked out smoke-air.