Jacket
After you drive away,
black car curling through
white snow banks and giant firs,
we wave, arms extended,
yours stretched out the window
till you round the last curve.
Honks echo down.
Motor dissolves into trees.
I stand in the road
in silence;
bare aspen and dark firs
reach into coming night.
Boots crunch through snow
on the trail to the house.
Across deepening sky
a hawk calls.
On wood stairs
I stomp off snow, pause,
look out at the silver meadow,
the icy pond,
the darkening ridge.
Inside, I take off my jacket,
hang it on its hook.
My eye catches and holds
the hook nearby,
shining gold and empty.
Layne Russell
Yuba Pass, Sierra Nevada
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