sun is a white marble eye sunk in a scowl of cloud February high in the trees with chain saw and pole pruners the union's red book says at -20 i can pull my crew off the job this once the boss goes by the book what isn't said is that -15 with a light wind it's thirty below by any chill factor the steel floor of the cherry picker under the thick soles of my boots white hot with frost metal tools cannot be held the others on the ground move like arctic monsters their faces stiff red masks curse me, this nether state and the mother who brought them to this cold place at the sight of the boss's jeep running so warm snow has melted off the roof his sports jacket open at the neck he calls me down to crack about Santa Claus and the frost on my beard if the pay wasn't good winter work less scarce his skull would be a snowball in the fist of my anger instead, courtesy of the crew a snag of poplar near-misses covering the windshield with deadfall a warning that ensures he won't be back for days
©Bruce Hunter, 1982 -- unauthorized duplication prohibited