A neighbor clears the road after a snowfall, driving down the hollow and back with his wife beside him. It's an ordinary winter chore, told in plain, quiet details. The speaker watches from a distance and seems fond of the pair, and of the old truck too, which hasn't left the mountain in years and is tied to its single road. There's a gentle humor in that, as if the truck were a loyal old animal that knows only one route.
The last stanza shifts the tone. The snow becomes "the fallen enemy," and the heaps the plow leaves in each yard turn into "white ramparts," like walls built from a defeated army. The image makes a small job feel grand and a little playful, while also hinting at how seriously people in a remote place take winter. The mood is calm, affectionate and wry, a portrait of a close, self-reliant community where even routine work carries a touch of quiet heroism.