SN OW D A N CE Allen M. Weber As twilight fell, the wind began to blow. Half-frozen neighbor kids have gone inside. Nimbostratus churn—expectant and low— above one boy. He leaps and pirouettes. His face upturned to greet the pregnant sky, he flops onto his back, a panting X. “Come, eat, before you catch your death of cold,” I guess a proper parent would protest. But then he’d beg to stay; he’s eight years old and not at all concerned about a cough or runny nose. His toes are turning blue; his stomach rumbles; still, he’s tough enough to spurn the warmth of beef and barley stew. Look! He’s up again, hopping toe to toe— a bit off-kilter as he’s dropped one shoe. Flakes come to feather our kitchen window. He nailed the rite, I recognized the moves. As I once could, my son has summoned snow.
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