The farthest hills shrug over me

in stiff geological crescents.

To obscure this minor outrage,

a snow squall perks in windy trees.

I press my face to the weather,

which tastes like diamond dust,

and think of Hopkins’ pied beauty

with its lust for corrugated surfaces.

The Irish countryside he knew

was like that. So is New Hampshire,

lacking frills. I press onward  

without further thought, the snow

basting me in minor kisses,

the hills shouldering me aside.