Snow When the flying boatreturns to earth at last,I open my eyesand gaze out the round window.What is all the white? I whisper.Where is all the world? The helping man greets meand there are many lines and questionsand pieces of paper. At last I follow him outside.We call that snow, he says.Isn't it beautiful?Do you like the cold? I want to sayNo, this cold is like claws on my skin! I look around me.Dead grass pokes throughthe unkind blanket of white.Everywhere the snowsparkles with lighthard as high sun.I close my eyes.I try out my new English words:How can you live in this place called America?It burns your eyes! The man gives me a fat shirtand soft things like hands.Coat, he says. Gloves.He smiles. You'll get used to it, Kek. I am a tall boy,like all my people.My arms stick out of the coatlike lonely trees.My fingers cannot makethe gloves work. I shake my head.I say, This America is hard work. His laughter makes little clouds. Excerpted from Home of the Brave by Katherine Applegate All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.