Making snow angels midday.
Elbow to elbow and wings overlapping
in the seconds we flail
shoving smoke rings out of mouths
distorted into knockwised ellipse
and fragments of "oh"s.
Nothing quite brilliant beneath the sun.
Nothing needing to be.
The cloud, already put on a show of
streaming sun beams around and shuffled away
to memory behind the roof line of the home
beside the yard
our yard
our yard!
looks like the tail of a serpent.
A dragon bending beyond that structure,
come home to feed and
while we watch it go,
bodies close and need,
sweat rises at the bridge of a nose,
snow armor grows too warm,
and laughter shifts to the sound
of us breathe.
