Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc

A three-legged dog hobbles from the highway

and sniffs for what he misses

in the grass that feeds the horses

who stand blackly, as though they, too,

are absences, cutouts in the grains giving their last

to winter. This is when a winter I know is coming

will be hard to hold. The rising

piles of cordwood say so.

The hesitation in the dog eliding the alfalfa says so.

Stay there, hand out, and soon

stars get up, come through the window,

and sleep next to my wife. Soon the truck next door starts,

its cylinders tight and brittle.

Then the window I stare out of

rattles with the motor’s emphysema.

Soon exhaust resembles

released frost. Pause. Soon the smells

of snow and pine smoke divide, like any question

not quite answered.

Soon nothing but the early sun

and towels left out stiff overnight steam the morning

awake. Maybe the truck will

pull away the lazy frost for the day.

These will become things in the world

for the first time. A late wind, threadbare light

and one blind leg will break the crust.