First Snow

The gentle army returns. Veterans, each one, parading Maine St. halting to gather about a patch of fallen leaves here, a wooden fencepost there. Children’s faces flush with excitement, foreheads covered by flat, dampened hair. They attempt to capture the unpredictable chunks; candy thrown from the celebratory firetruck. The parade gathers past the bridge between Maine and Main where a dingy spray leaps off the river as water pushes over the dam; fervor renewed. Homecoming, six long months since your last show in April, I’d nearly forgotten you even to prepare for your welcome, unsure that you’d ever return from the arctic trenches to liberate us from the tourists.