Yesterday’s sunset hung on fire,

gold-orange, the color of molten ore.

A pale foreground light shone

on the silver surface of the ponds

tracing the silhouettes

of ducks and geese.

A car wallowed crossways in the ditch.

A plastic chair lay by the road.

By morning, snow had gathered

in desert drifts and scalloped shoals,

as if last night’s moon-bright clouds

had fallen down and left their imprint

on an ocean floor.

The sun was blinding on the snow.

Through a stubble of dead grass

and stillborn shadows of leafless trees

ran aimless tracks of starving birds.

A mole had burrowed a village

of snow-capped hovels.

Don’t look for any meaning there,

or in the toppled chair.

— George Gurley lives in Baldwin City.