It’s that time of year
When we take stock
And evaluate the damage
Of the previous winter.
The survivors are praised,
With a gentle apathy.
The corpses are removed
And replaced.
Fifteen inches down,
Their new home awaits.
In the summer, we’ll see
How many of them stay.
The dead are random.
There’s almost no significance
Of their haphazard fates.
The work is dirty,
But well worth the effort.

As I sit here and reflect
At the work done today,
My body is tired
My clothes are filthy
And all I can think,
Is how my first line
Sounds like Nancy Wilson
Singing The Christmas Waltz.