It's not frigid yet. That air is to come, Packed isobars piling down upon us. Right now it's tolerable, and I can tell By the way the snow crunches underfoot. When the arctic air comes, the snow will moan, Although my boots will leave the same footprints As I cross the street. It's quiet on Hearthstone Drive this late afternoon. Above me the sky is a placid, even grey As if reflecting the snow beneath. The air's dead. Calm. Almost like there's no air. It's so still that my short walk seems an affront To a midwinter still life. Like when you take a deep, deep breath And hold it a moment. You know your heart is still beating, Yet there's a pause. And then exhale.