fallen angel

when are the plow trucks coming
through,
my neighbor asks me, as the snow
falls and levels
the street with a fine
white powder. we both stand
on our porches
looking up into the sky.
my knowledge of the plowing
schedule is limited,
so I tell him I don't know.
we're supposed to get six
inches, he says, maybe more
if the winds shift down
from Canada.
perhaps, I say, lying down
in my white yard,
fanning my legs and arms
to make a fallen angel.