Ice Camp by John Kitterman

by John Kitterman

In the morning everything becomes a sign. The gabled house is grim, a bearded ghost. At 8 am, the pines in sequined dresses curtsey to needles and the forsythia sweep the ground before you. The poor willow has lost her head, and there is a newlywed under the bridge muttering, “Touch it, and it will crack like a hunchback.” Christmas tree farms are rows of gnarled dwarves buried upright under invisible weight. One reckless cardinal bloodies the whole. Fear rolls freely through the poised spectacle tempting you with its “everything is different.” You are different. It‘s not even spring yet all the seeds are crying, crying to be let out. To break something. In the house the wife is still abed. She has no idea.

Soon she will get up to look for you, but you will not be there.