I Won't Be Back

On my snowshoe walk today
  a man leaned out his window and
  yelled at me to go away.

His wife was upstairs,  he said,
shampooing her hair—
  she could see me from there.

I didn't think I'd been offensive,
  walking lonely, downward looking,
  slightly pensive. 

He has a pasture empty but for snow  and my tracks.
It is just one place I can go— 
I won't be back.

I left his field, it was a minor thing,
  not worth a fight.
I won't be back—until the spring—
  to fly a kite.