Aurora Borealis

Before all this, there was the cabin, its basket
of potatoes and jar of milk, its white
enamel sink and heirloom Austrian rug we fell asleep
on after midnight runs, curling with heat
and thoughts of each other stretching like a road
to either horizon, heater blasting, ploughing through
the soundless white, the blurring lines
of flakes, a beer passing between us, stopping for moose
and trains and fox and cranes and once, near Circle, blind,
having lost our world to high bright drifts, and once, not blind,
not missing a thing on wintry Sheep Creek Road, strewn
bottles sparkling, leaving the truck without a word, hurling
glass in every direction, breathless with what we thought
we could save.