Huddled and hushed they whisper
incantations, their phones talismans
alight with weather.com & accuweather.
They study forecasts, the hour by hour,
temperature highs and lows, even the humidity
predicts the snow’s stickability.
They are too distracted to focus on anything other
than the wall of windows and the heavy gray sky
except when I speak of tomorrow’s lesson,
an upcoming quiz, or project deadline,
then a picket line of protest arms launches
and someone dares to jinx the weather gods
by voicing the verboten what if…
They want to play out each scenario.
Early dismissal’s a longshot but
delay versus cancellation is debated,
downed powerlines and tree limbs
blocking roads that buses travel
a real complication.
I’m old enough to remember
when snowstorms arrived by stealth,
to remember emerging crusty-eyed
from a crumpled nest of wool blankets,
snapping upwards the stiff roller shade
with a quick downward tug and breathing in
the unexpected, magical transformation.
Silver slivers of trash can lids sparkle curbside,
airborne crystals float past streetlight spotlights,
end of driveways piled high with muddy blocks of snow
and salt left behind by the snowplow swerve,
the Vista Cruiser, a stranded beast without contour
except for the side-view mirrors peeking out
like padded earmuffs.
I don’t let on to my students but I’m not too old
to join them in prayer to the weather gods.
So what if we don’t get to discuss the meaning
of the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock?
English Journal, January,2023
Elise Chadwick 