snow day by Michael Thys

june 25th, 2007 - snow day


though i am sad that in two weeks the lines of my skin won’t be obvious with dirt,

that i won’t hold my hand out the window of a pickup at the end of the day, the created wind turning it into a bird’s wing that i only feel, don’t look at, not wanting to miss each vivid instant of openings between trees and down creeks as they reveal and shut,

that the plateaued callouses which i held toward the falling snow this morning will soon be gone from lack of need,

and cobwebs of city life will begin to accumulate in my body once more and there will no longer be an easy filling out to the furthest reaches of my skin during that morning time first bag,

that the weather will again be something through a pane of glass that folks talk about to have something in common, rather than my cold arm from the sleeping bag to one more snooze button, or sandpaper shoulderstraps from yesterday afternoon’s overindulgence in the sun,

how my lifted fingernail patiently pushes out its black raven’s beak, and deep tributaries of the same colour in the valleys between my pointer and thumb, and the callouses on my palm underneath each finger welling up faster than they are worn down, how all of this becomes:
my own body returning to me fresh the marvel i felt as a child at the gentle and obvious power of my dad’s hands; him finally home from work and me unable to believe he didn’t notice when and couldn’t tell me how he got that cut and this blood blister,

soon enough these shin and forearm scabs will become purple lines then fade,

as will memories of whoops and yells and aye-yeayh-yeayhs as someone turns up the beats in the green dodge and a spontaneous dance party begins, with stomping in pools of logging road ooze and people smiling big and everyone in this together; a victorious moment because the snow is beautiful and jerry has made the call and there will be no trees planted today, it’s a long weekend now. this day is a gift.

and even though it is a gift, we all know we’ve won it, because as the elevation grew and the rain turned to sleet we somehow fought and hoped and closed our eyes and manifested heavy flakes and changed the lyrics of the choruses of songs to ‘snow!’ and we’ve pulled through, the day is ours.

so now peel off the fingers and throw the shiny and ready duct tape out the moving window, and we are back to camp before 10am for big joints and a drive into town to the aquatic center with its hot tub; or red wine, brandy, jokes and poker in the weatherhaven; or more than a chapter in the book and every mornings’ wish of back into the sleeping bag while outside rain spatters and rolls down the tarp. this day is a gift.