At dusk the girl who will become my mom

    must trudge through the snow， her legs

    cold under skirts， a bandanna tight on her braids.

    In the henhouse， a klook pecks her chapped hand

    as she pulls a warm egg from under its breast.

    This girl will always hate hens，

    and she already knows she won't marry a farmer.

    In a dim barn， my father， a boy， forks hay

    under the holsteins' steaming noses.

    They sway on their hooves and swat dangerous tails，

    but he is thinking of snow， how it blows

    across the gray pond scribbled with skate tracks，

    of the small blaze on its shore， and the boys

    in black coats who skate hand-in-hand

    round and round， building up speed

    until the leader cracks that whip

    of mittens and arms， and it jerks around

    fast， flinging off the last boy.

    He'd be that one——flung like a spark

    trailing only his scarf.