I still like to break the ice
Of puddles where I can.
At the junction down a ways
I'm a bull in a china shop;
A dancing man.
It's early in the morning,
Dark as Sam,
And the cars are barely waking up
To drag their people off
Into a traffic jam.
Just me and my boots
And a moose in the road.
He looks at me, and I look at him.
He ambles off into the underbrush
Like a slow locomotive, snorting smoke.
I slow to a prowl, and then to a stand:
There at the junction, where the ice is broke.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem