Walking through a field with my little brother Seth <br /> <br />I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow. <br />For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels <br />had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground. <br /> <br />He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer. <br /> <br /> <br />Then we were on the roof of the lake. <br />The ice looked like a photograph of water. <br /> <br />Why he asked. Why did he shoot them. <br /> <br />I didn't know where I was going with this. <br /> <br />They were on his property, I said. <br /> <br /> <br />When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room. <br /> <br />Today I traded hellos with my neighbor. <br />Our voices hung close in the new acoustics. <br />A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling. <br /> <br />We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence. <br /> <br /> <br />But why were they on his property, he asked.<br /><br />David Berman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/snow-3/
