Well Before Infinity, Still Far Too Many

We’re avoiding counting
In this poem. Driving through

Snowy mountain passes
Behind a vast snowplow

Churning clouds of the stuff,
Spreading dirt behind it

For hours as more snow falls,
We know your thoughts want to

At least distract themselves,
Making rough estimates

How much snow is falling?
How much dirt can plows drop?

How much wiper fluid
Is left for your windshield?

Don’t do it. Don’t. Stop. Snow
As far as you can see.

Let the government count
Meteorologists’

Reports and measurements.
Don’t be tempted to think

They’ll give you an idea.
Big numbers and small ones,

How well can you feel them,
Exact gaps between them?

Peering out as you drive,
You’re not seeing numbers

Other than numerous,
The whole scene numerous,

So many things in it
You can’t count, can’t name it.