Ghosts

Ghosts




You don't actually see ghosts. You notice them.
You will be standing there real quiet
and paying attention to the sounds
when out of the corner of your eye
one will be standing there in periphery.
And you freeze up, ever so slightly
turning your head, keeping your plywood skis
firmly planted, parallel on the snow, on the ice –

but your beard rustles, brushing against your collar,
and the trucks on the interstate whistle and whine
and by the time your head is perpendicular, facing
where it was you thought you saw it
the ghost is gone with a low rumble of thunder-snow,
swirling away in the flakes, broken by the Northeast Wind.

They don't say anything to you as they skim away
across the frozen lake. They probably don't even
hear the sound of your beard and your polyester jacket.
Even so, you find yourself hoping those ghosts
might appreciate you taking the time to notice.