Photo by Annie Spratt
The Winter Cringe
Tim Kahl
The pores tighten during the advance of the clouds,
and the neck is taut edging past the crispness.
It is time to don the heavy socks and ponder
why the tule fog has gone missing the last
decade. It used to cripple traffic on the interstate,
create pile-ups that would make the headlines.
Now it's like an old man you hardly see
anymore without his walker. It’s still the town
crier for winter, but it doesn’t sock in the city’s
air traffic like it used to. It has become an ache
in the bones that no one’s sad to see leave.
Questions linger about the houses built on
the marshlands where the Miwok villages grew,
villages limited in size to avoid damage to the land.
The Miwok kept moving, some say all the way from
Siberia where much of their language still
plays. Who could blame them for getting
out of all that snow, following the salmon
across the Bering Strait and taking up residence
among the valley oaks. They built kotça houses
of bark and reeds, slept on furs. They
waited not for the bringer of fire,
but the bringer of socks. I am tired
of cringing and tensing up for the cold
coming this season. O coyote, great creator
of the Miwok, grant me antifreeze in
the heart and toes that won’t turn to ice.
Tim Kahl
The pores tighten during the advance of the clouds,
and the neck is taut edging past the crispness.
It is time to don the heavy socks and ponder
why the tule fog has gone missing the last
decade. It used to cripple traffic on the interstate,
create pile-ups that would make the headlines.
Now it's like an old man you hardly see
anymore without his walker. It’s still the town
crier for winter, but it doesn’t sock in the city’s
air traffic like it used to. It has become an ache
in the bones that no one’s sad to see leave.
Questions linger about the houses built on
the marshlands where the Miwok villages grew,
villages limited in size to avoid damage to the land.
The Miwok kept moving, some say all the way from
Siberia where much of their language still
plays. Who could blame them for getting
out of all that snow, following the salmon
across the Bering Strait and taking up residence
among the valley oaks. They built kotça houses
of bark and reeds, slept on furs. They
waited not for the bringer of fire,
but the bringer of socks. I am tired
of cringing and tensing up for the cold
coming this season. O coyote, great creator
of the Miwok, grant me antifreeze in
the heart and toes that won’t turn to ice.