I Own the Road, Now

 Now they're coming down:
Relentless soft streaks of white,
Slicing through the sky.

White tops grow large
On the bird house and plant pot
Outside my window.

In all directions
The roads are blank and untouched;
Virgin land again!

Lapping up the snow--
Mailbox stands with mouth open;
It soon will be full.

The bend is a blur;
Soft focus this snowy morn.
Distant crow crying.

I own the road now;
Just me and my crunching shoes;
[And billion snow flakes.]

Whose footprints are these;
Walking towards me in the snow?
Oh yes. They are mine!

Not even snow plows
Interrupt the blank business
Of the falling flakes.