In Minnesota, when the lakes again

become liquid—fish houses put

away, hockey nets taken

down, and the tremolo of 

loon calls echo 

along shorelines—

the vestiges of 

crystal surfaces 

melt into the 

lapping lake 

water, 

we call it 

ice out. 

This January, a bright red flower blossomed on 

a south Minneapolis street—its

crimson petals spreading out 

upon the white bloom of an 

airbag, shading the

empty driver’s seat

of a Honda—and

we called,

ice out.

In Minnesota, a boy—smiling in his

bright blue conejito hat, bright

eyes echoing those of the

rabbit embracing his 

head, protecting his

tiny ears against

subzero chill,

his Spiderman

backpack stiff in

the cold—snatched,

entrapped, flown to 

El Paso, and

we called,

ice out.

This January, a woman—coat as pink as 

the Glam Doll Donuts sign—bore

witness as federal agents 

budgeted a barrage of 

taxpayer-bought 

bullets for the 

body of a 

Minnesotan

on Nicollet

Ave., and

we called,

ice out.

In Minnesota, this winter, Minnesotans

flooded the streets—in red hats, even

bathrobes and slippers, armed with 

whistles, cellphones, and song— 

surged like the Mississippi

during a spring thaw,

undeterred by the

violence federal agents

have visited on

our neighbors,

our communities,

our children,

and let the 

world know

that, as we

do every

winter, 

we

are

here,

prepared to

wait, as long

as it takes,

until 

ice out.