The truth of a poem I used in my Inside Poetry (1st ed., 1984) rings true today.
Canadian January Night
-Alden Nowlan
Ice storm; the hill
pyramid of black crystal
down which the cars
slide like phosphorescent beetles
while I, walking backwards in obedience
to the wind, am possessed
of the fearful knowledge
my compatriots share
but almost never utter:
this is a country
where a man can die
simply from being
caught outside.
