After the storm

Snow sealing off the high passes and the wind howling.
Snow plastering pine, fir, and spruce.
                                                         Capping the river rocks.
Stubborn boulders scattered in the icy, black flow—
                                       anchored by their own hard gravity.
                                                   *
This morning the valley's grey and white.
                         I'm reading Libbrecht's Field Guide to Snowflakes.
Studying the beauty of ice.
Mastering its terms: bullet, needle, capped column, rime, star—
             and the importance of dust
                                                            in turning water to crystal.
                           Outside, the banshee of driven snow wail past—
                                                         wraiths tall and twisted.
                                                   *
None of this will help you
                       posthole your way out of a frozen wilderness
                                                           of deep snow—
Long's Peak west,
                                  the Mummies to the north, curtained—
All landmarks,
          little codes and semaphores of animals and birds blotted out.
It won't even help you shovel your walk.
                       I think of summer in the Never Summer Range.
                                                   *
Never mind that
                       when I'm here alone,
                                 silence is the language I speak most often.
I have its grammar down by heart.
                        It glides easily on its own melting.
                                                   *
Now, another day.
The morning fire in the grate flaps its tongues,
                                                                         gossiping,
           and the wind palavers in a loose window sash.
And miles away the high white peaks fume and gleam in the sun.