The Spy

Little boy lies on his floor
peering out the window
from up on the second storey
of a red brick house,
spying on the passers-by
as they pass by in the snow.
Tawny little head,
bobbing this way and that
long, little boy body
covered in bright woollen colours-
his camouflage.

Who can describe the excitement
that snow brings to a child?
Who can grasp the thrill of
just-before-Christmas
anticipation?

Little boy lies on his floor
his eyes following
a couple with a snow-bounding dog,
the little tiny girl,
with her little tiny wrapped present,
green and red and gold,
the neighbours toting shovels
and pushing snowblowers,
the trucks delivering late-in-the-season
packages and envelopes and packets.
“Is one for me?”
Little boy whispers to no one in particular,
to himself,
or perhaps to Bear.

Little boy lies on his floor
wishing away his fever
wishing to be out in the soft falling snow
wishing to be sliding down
impossibly tall mountains
made by the shovelers and the blowers,
wishing to be out
instead of inside, spying.

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