It started when a filament popped
in the lone headlight
of the snow sled,
quietly, beneath the engine’s roar
and the grind of the single-track
trundle churning snow
as the girl left late
to make it home.
The blizzard, my mother
says, buried her
back-trail and without
a light she could not find
her trace. That filament,
the fine hair finely split,
brought on a deeper night,
and with it the wind conspired.
The wind banked great drifts.
It rearranged the known world’s face.
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