Where was his pen? Ray searched through loose papers.
Under a half written letter—the pen’s
Nose suddenly exposed like a small mouse.
“There you are my little friend, thought I’d lost
You to my untidy forgetfulness.”
 
He cradles the pen in his tired fingers,
And starts to write about the cold weather
Here in the mountains—no sign of spring soon.
His eyes find the window—dusk—small lights flick
A farewell at the top of the bare birch trees.
 
Winds, now milder than a week ago, wrap
Around the cabin like arms from old friends.
The winds stop. Ray’s pen stops. And he listens.
The goats in the barn have been milked and fed,
The chickens, he was certain, were asleep.
 
Ray’s pen scratches on his simple paper:
“Radio says it’ll snow on Monday.
What about you Alice, still snowing there
Where you live in Nebraska? Your last note
Mentioned your school was closed down for the day.”
 
Clouds begin to cover the northern skies,
The night winds above the cabin pick up.
Ray has no photo of his friend Alice.
“By the way, could you send me a picture
Of you and your school? I’d like a picture.”
 
Ray has over 30 pen pals—gals from
All over the country. “I have photos”
He continues, “from almost all my friends
I write to. Some are sure pretty, others,
Well, the truth be told. They’re not so pretty.
 
But I bet you are a nice looking gal,
Alice. All school teachers are nice looking.
I like movies too. Do you like movies?
Have you seen the Grapes of Wrath? Sure is swell!
I think you should go if you have the time.
 
I’ve seen all sorts of movies with my pals:
Disney makes some good ones—Pinocchio
Was here a while back. I liked it real well.
I think I told you, I’m twenty-seven.
But I like all kinds of movies, you know.
 
You like to cook Alice? I like to cook.
I’d like to find a good woman who cooks.
I bet you cook really well, right Alice?
What do you cook out there in Nebraska?
I’ve heard the corn fields are something to see.”
 
Ray’s mind begins to wonder without end,
There is no reason not to ask questions.
The more questions he asks, the more she’ll write.
They’ve written twice now, this will be their third.
He thinks about the war, about his goats.

“Alice, do you think we’ll enter that war?
They say that European war’s real big.
Do you think we’ll be fighting too? I do.
If I go, I’d have to leave my goat farm.
Maybe I’d never seen you then, Alice.”
 
The candle on Ray’s table is almost
Burned out. Snow has started falling outside,
And the northern winds have died down—silence.
“I guess I’d better stop here. Need to go.
Want to check on the goats before I sleep.”
 
Ray scratches his name and dates the letter.
He makes a quick sketch of his small goat farm.
He doesn’t like the goats that he has drawn,
So he makes a big sun over the farm,
Hoping Alice’s eyes will find the sun.
 
Ray lays his pen down, folds the finished note.
He finds the envelope he stamped weeks ago.
Would the mailman be up here with the snow?
Ray wondered when his note would reach Alice.
He puts his boots on— ponders Nebraska.