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.
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.