The snow grows deep outside. I want to know about snowflakes. I want to know where runs the salt of a thousand driveways, a hundred city roads. Where runs the salt when there is no sea. I want to know if the deer drink it. If the fish breathe it, held tightly in their winter sleep. I want to know how it has not poisoned all the lakes. Or I want to know how it has.

We run the plow up the long driveway and back, warm in the truck. Coffee steams the windows. A month ago there were still cows lowing in the field outside; now the slick-iced hill shines like steel in the sun. They will be back in spring to stand at the fence and beg for apples, rubbing their horns against the trees. There are rabbit tracks beyond the deck. The creek slides still under its frozen sheath.

I scrape at ice on the patio with a heavy-handled tool, resisting the call of easy salt. Sweat will do.