Fishes in the deep know nothing of the snow and even less of me. They flop and flip where snow can't be, unless a Sunday soul pulls one through a hole to flop upon a snowy frozen lake. I've heard it said some snowstorm eve there'll be a reckoning: Fishy things will wiggle under beds and slither us like sleds into the midnight brine. Down deep they'll nibble where snow and moon's forbidden in dreams confused with sleep.