squirrel hill

when I used to walk home
through the ravine
and across the golfcourse
the wind would blow snow
and I would stuff my hands
farther into my gloves and farther
into my pockets and bury my nose
into the wool scarf that smelled
like it was one hundred years old
I would close my eyes
and imagine the white army pursuing me
cossacks on horses with scimitars and moustaches
yelling gibberish and drinking gunpowder
my pace would quicken and I would
stumble into a deep drift
and pause to pull the snow out
of my boots
with cold red
hands angry that this was where
the squirrels were not.  I didn't see any squirrels.