David Gruber

At Once-Familiar

An hour and a half of flurries
yields foot pressed to pedal
the valley unfolding in fairwell revue.

Driving ahead of the snowstorm
a mountain, its side on fire
along the shoulder a cyclone:
leaves scratch across pavement, leap.

I learned
what weight words and what weight
action.

Over against the slope, a light – a house perhaps
between there and here a yellow field
on top of the hill radio towers
pulse above smoke.

Counterweighted by the ochre sun
night at first cleft the valley and then
swallowed the mountain.

The shocking consequence of place –
staying though the winter our life
slipped from my hand, was
struck by the linoleum and only uneasily repaired.

There were two rats
where you and I were to meet.