Whiteout

The storm began,

In the dark of night,

While the people slept,

Oblivious.

The weather report had

Said snow;

But then, again,

Weathermen always exaggerated,

So people didn’t believe them any more.

“We don’t get snow like that here!”

The birds knew.

They gathered in the spruce trees,

Puffing their feathers for warmth,

Until they looked like

Tennis balls

With tails.

The deer knew.

Wraiths at the edge of the woods,

Hunkering down in the brush,

Prepared to wait it out.

The rodents knew.

Voles: chubby sausages, with short, stubby legs.

Deer mice: snow-white bellies, tiny scurrying feet.

Squirrels: wrapped warmly in their fluffy tails.

Even the chipmunks, curled in their tree-hollows, dreaming snowy dreams.

Finally,

The people woke.

They looked out their windows,

Wide-eyed,

Stunned

At the transformation

Of their world.

Everything buried

Beneath a

Thick,

Unstoppable,

Unrecognizable,

Icily foreign

Carpet of white.

And they knew

Fear.