Snow Dance Allen M. Weber

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.