At dusk the girl who will become my mom
must trudge1 through the snow， her legs

cold under skirts， a bandanna2 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 scribbled3 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 mittens4 and arms， and it jerks around

fast， flinging off the last boy.

He'd be that oneflung like a spark

trailing only his scarf.