We woke to the predicted ten inches of snow,
a fine powder that blew from the east
during the day it started falling.
During the night, the wind shifted north
and the snow kept falling,
blowing and drifting throughout the night.
In some places, bare grass showed through
the winding seams of dunes
and in others the drifts filled ditches.
As I looked out toward the south,
I saw the first sundog,
a nearly straight shaft of color
prismed by ice in high air,
reaching up above the bare grays of the ridge.
Moving to another window on the second floor,
I saw the northern dog, blurred by the branches.
Even from the attic, I could not get a clear view.
Aching even from the thought
of a minus twenty wind chill,
I grabbed a coat and camera.
The wind lanced my jeans
and thin gloves as I pushed my way
through the snow until I reached a place
where I could see the whole scene:
colors showing on opposite edges
of a huge dim halo,
tree shadows etched on untracked snow.
If we wish to see scenes we have not seen,
whether by faith or other lens,
we must leave the warmth of comfort
and push our way to places we have not been before.