Poem: Squamish Storm

I stand in the dark
shake ice from  my hair
and walk beneath the moon
to a neighbour's house for matches.
Snow up to the top of my thighs,
each gunshot footstep,
scatters owls
through the black silk night.
I hear the deer snapping fallen branches,
their faces emerge like knots from a pine wall.
The cold winds round me
and my laboured breath freezes on my face
Icicles hang from the trees,
their dim shadows impale the drifts.
Head bent low,
I butt against the frigid night
Each whip of wind,
each flake,
each patch of frozen ground,
is claimed by winter
and this bone-chilling Squamish storm.