Around here they all like to say, “it’s spitting snow,”
as if they had somehow invented the concept,
even the weatherman says it, but they fail to run
with the idea, “it’s spitting snow” suggests a figure
this large indelicate being, the “it” in the phrase,
hovering over the day, spitting down on us, perhaps
out of disgust with us, or perhaps just playing with us,
his mouth partially full of flakes, he puckers up
and gives us this weather and a saying we like to say
surrounded, as we are, by his baggy grey clothes
and this bitter cold, his cold shoulder to us as he
tries to think of what else he can get away with next.
