In the night the powder snow
        lay deep on woods and fields.
        I jogged for warmth.
        Through autumn pants and drawers,
        my thighs ached from the cold
        that gripped the land like iron.

        I should have stayed in town.

        I slowed for rest,
        walking backward watching
        the towering northern lights,
        great ranked fluorescent spears
        advancing  and retreating in the sky.

        The cold night roweled me, and I ran again.

        Ahead a farmhouse hunched,
        low, snow-laden, lightless in the night,
        the last house on my way
        and nine miles more to go,
        nine miles of bog and forest,
        and twenty-nine below.

        Did I dare?

        The place was still, but by the house,
        a battered pickup said they were at home.

        Nine miles to jog on legs already tired.


        My boots creaked on the tire-packed snow
        as senses honed by stillness and the act,
        I walked toward the house,
        a weathered cabin of squared logs,
        with curtained windows, and the smell of smoke
        faintly pungent in the snow-lit night.

        A half-hour's rest, that's all.

        It was unlocked.  The hinges made no sound.
        Inside was darker far than out of doors.
        A banked fire leaked thin glowing lines,
        edging the door  of a stove that once
        had been a drum of oil.

        A chair stood dimly near it, and I sat. 

        What was that?  Claws on linoleum!

        A shaggy farm dog walked into the room.
        Large in the darkness,
        came and sniffed, then lay down by my feet,
        silently accepting, as if he understood.