On the day it finally snowed, we drove
home, with the dog licking the window
in long, loud slurps, as if a spring
had welled up, conjured from the car,
as if the pane had become a cistern.
Twenty-degree weather, and his tongue
didn’t stick, but described steamy trails
through his reflection, while we chided him,
Stop, bad boy! What did we miss?
Some condensation grander than breath?
There was nothing beyond the farm fences
that afternoon, nothing beyond the fat snow
sliding by the car, fog, winter pastures,
the dog's reflection in the frozen glass.