Pink flamingos in the snow,
newly planted in drifts
as high as their fat plastic bellies,
their gaudy long necks
stretched to watch the passing traffic.
I drive along my usual route
in glassy ice-formed ruts,
thinking bad thoughts about winter
and brooding darkly
about the endless wet and cold.
Then four flamingos catch my eye,
laughing at their own frigid landscape
and feigning warmth of other climes.
I smile and thank the thoughtful wag
who placed them there
for offering hope
and pointing us toward spring.