Lake Erie is a temperamental beast.
A haven from the oppressive summers,
but winters feast obsessively upon
each morsel of moisture left exposed.
A chain of timbers are left to float,
an ice boom to restrict the transmigration
of the frozen precipitation. Keeping clear
the water intakes and outlet culverts
from its destructive assaults. No fault
to the Corp of Engineers who follow their orders
and Mother Nature’s dictates. Every storm that takes form
from Toledo to Buffalo passes over her wake,
seeding the clouds with a chilled wind and an evil grin.
For within its scope is the hope that accumulations
will be controlled. But you’d sell your soul
that the lake’s effects will not wreck that plan.
A man with a snow blower can take only so much.
And such is life in Buffalo.