The End to Winter

by Jeff Burt

My palms look like pound signs–
I carry trail work with me.

We rise from the dull doorway
of Smith’s China Shop,

you tuck your hair back-
pack-creased beneath your cap,

step into the oil-lacquered street
from a car’s vacant spot,

pavement yet warm to the feet
like the berth a dog left to lie elsewhere,

your quick wave to get a move on,
your glance a warming against the fulminating sky.

I bury my head in my chest fighting
the blistering gusts of wind–

the rain, which had begun
to slacken, continues to.

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Jeff Burt lives in the mountains near the Pacific Ocean with two-lane roads just wide enough for one car and speed bumps that encourage speed. He has a mild obsession with windows. He has work published in The Cortland Review, Nature Writing, Windfall, Thrice Fiction, eclectica, and others.