Black lace of branches against the sky. When the wind stops, the thick smoke of my breath blocks my view. A tree pops, loud as a rifle shot.
More fresh snow—or is this the wind’s work? My house is empty again. The night is loud with trains carrying coal and corn syrup.
I sweep snow off my chair, then look up to see the crescent moon appearing and disappearing behind the clouds. Trees creaking in the dark.
A fresh dusting of snow since midnight, and more flakes in the air. The windows vibrate with the snoring of a late-night reveler.