Six inches, after the first storm. A whir
of blades across the snow-packed pavement's trench,
and the blower splattered across the fence
a Pollock canvas, an hoarfrost-strewn blur
from the Tecumseh engine's angry burr.
Against winter, this is your armament -
a 2-stage, 11-hp, 30-inch,
pull-start, self-propelled silverback monster.
She fought back with seven inches, her scrawl
strafed across the night's blackboard sky like chalk.
A quick change of spark plugs after a stall,
and you push her across the border, back.
In the morning's ceasefire, the white crystal
of last night's fray reveals a silver Rorschach.