We had no choice but to be ghosts
only twin sheets would fit
over our parkas and snowsuits
so we all went every year as ghosts
formed a polite white line strung across
the drifted-over gravel roads
drawn back again
in February no less
this time in a warm pickup cab
iron clouds above the gray county highway
dirty white windmills
angus herds gathered at the feedlot
metal snowfences and ice floating the river
blackbird atop a speed limit sign
the coin-sized red spot at his wing unavoidable
a farmer closes his shed doors for the night
low cold sun on the horizon
the wind chill and the white line
by Mark MacAllister
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