snow

it is snowing even in the summer.
not like "it is snowing somewhere else"
but right here in the veil place where
all the time is smashing like bananas
under shoes. i found a baby squirrel 
today who was blown from a tree by
a hungry wind. we gathered her in a box
& talked to her about the coming storm.
thunder kicked the earth. we drove to
a house in the fields. a god, lost in the lightning,
started asking where to find the snow.
i used my box cutter to slice the onion layers
so that he could return. sometimes i wonder
if this whole world is a liminal place. if this is
a passway. a train station. a snow storm.
snow & sand are the same thing at least
for the purposes of this poem. footprint keepers.
children of a memory of great water. 
i go out in the snow barefoot. you ask me
to come inside lest i might get eaten by
the neighbor's wolf. we google "stand you ground"
laws & learn that in this state you can
shoot someone from your house if you 
decide you're afraid. i am afraid all the time
& i don't have a desire to shoot. i guess that is
the difference between prey animals & predator animals. 
my heart was built to run. their hearts were built
to eat. the snow is really coming down now.
i build a snowperson no one else can see.
dance with her. try to feel her cold. the baby squirrel
would have died if we didn't find her. i imagine
another timeline in which i found her 
in the morning at the foot of the tree. 
the wind blows. you say you find
baby squirrels in the yard every year. i am wasteful.
i often throw away the first layer of the onion. 
bruised & sometimes a little bit of rot. 
that is us though. we are the first layer of onion.
the snow stops. i tell you. you humor me.
we go out together. the world is humid
from the rain. i tell you, "i love how everything looks
draped in white." the gutter spills her guts. 
a hungry wind blows our hair.