trucks

After verifying that the latest vehicle to drive up does not contain her people, the old dog lies down, resignation written in every muscle.

A bright period between showers. Coming around the bend in the road, the flashing yellow light on the roof of the meter-reader’s truck.

Through driving snow, our neighbor is out plowing the road. The plow’s hydraulics whine like a sled dog. Tire chains scrabble at the ice.

The sun slowly dims in the whitening sky. Soft taps of a woodpecker. The flashing orange light on the roof of the meter reader’s truck.

Sound, like the rest of the weather, is out of the east: plow trucks, slow-moving trains, a dog barking on and on at the falling snow.

On a dark, rainy morning, the flashing orange light on the meter reader’s truck. A heron flies over the house—its long, skinny legs.

Traffic noise from over the hill is deafening—the icy snowpack has become a sounding board. In the tulip tree, four slow, amorous squirrels.

Up in the woods, one witch hazel has already leafed out—a green flame. The rumble of a pickup approaching then failing to appear.

No wind, but some slight motion of the air brings the sound of trucks and the sour smell of sewage up the hollow. The first drops of rain.

The woods are more open by the day. Three croaks from overhead: raven. The electric company’s line crew arrives, red flags on their truck.