At dusk the girl who will become my mom
must trudge through the snow， her legs
cold under skirts， a bandanna tight on her braids.
In the henhouse， a klook pecks her chapped hand
as she pulls a warm egg from under its breast.
This girl will always hate hens，
and she already knows she won't marry a farmer.
In a dim barn， my father， a boy， forks hay
under the holsteins' steaming noses.
They sway on their hooves and swat dangerous tails，
but he is thinking of snow， how it blows
across the gray pond scribbled with skate tracks，
of the small blaze on its shore， and the boys
in black coats who skate hand-in-hand
round and round， building up speed
until the leader cracks that whip
of mittens and arms， and it jerks around
fast， flinging off the last boy.
He'd be that one——flung like a spark
trailing only his scarf.