You can hear it coming, a storm like this,
the kind of atmospheric hum you stop
everything to listen for, to hear through,

and by the time you understand its noise
you can see it too, a stalactite fog,
a warp of ice the green world is weft of.

Only this time you simply let it come:
no hunting for shelter these last seconds,
there being, after all, nowhere to hide—

no tarp, no poncho, no blanket, no hat.
Nothing but your two hands,
and even those, before the shawl of ice

drapes itself over you, you extend,
not to catch the stones but to see them travel
up the long, warm distances of your arms.