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Today’s snowfall, second of the season in
Galloway County, Wisconsin, didn’t amount
to much, but it freshened the fields and trees.
At suppertime tonight on this second day of
December, a cold crescent moon descended
into leafless oaks in the black sky. Ice slicked
snowy Schliesmann Road when Mom and I followed
Dad from town to the farm so I could off-load a pair
of full gasoline cans from his Toyota for whoever will
operate his new tractor-mounted snowthrower.
For years crescent moons were yours
and mine to share in the long nights of
winter. Now, many moons have come
and gone since I last heard from you.
Tonight, though you may never read
these words, you inspire me to write.
On our way back to town, as Mom and I were passing
the farm north of Ted Reese’s, a dark dog, wolf-like,
bounded out, bark bark barked, and sprinted on the
ice ahead of my Subaru, leading us, daring us, I thought,
to run him down. I lifted my foot from the gas pedal,
glanced at my speedometer, and noticed not my speed
but a lighted line of 2’s, five of them in all, and, below
those, another pair of deuces—twenty-two degrees outside.
It seemed a string of lucky numbers, lucky for the dog at least,
for the dog survived. I’m sure he thought he was playing a
game of skill and not of chance. Or perhaps he was scampishly
pretending to pull a sled. I myself didn’t choose to join in the
fun, but someone else might come along yet, after the moon
has set. A more playful passerby than I may mush him.
♦
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