Fifty-Two on the Radar Gun

Ice covers the surface of the birdbath.
The sparrows have no skates.

Nothing disappears.
It is blanketed under snow.

In the colder months I write more
about long scarves and mittens.

The street lights are brighter
reflecting up toward the sky.

A stranger passes by with shovel.
Ten bucks to clear the walkway.

I finger the smoothed object of a snowball
and test my arm’s accuracy on a telephone pole.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

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