I could walk to the party tonight or wait.
Before me, the snow lies in swells over the fields like a white ocean. Behind me, the neighbor’s stone wall cuts off retreat.
If I no longer think about my friend who is coming to pick me up; if I stop thinking time onto the snow—the distance between my friends and my self does not disappear. It is not.
Richard complains somewhere and always will. It is the season for that. Sensible creatures either sleep or leave. They don't stand around in shafts of gloom-framed light to sulk and grouse. I try to remind myself of that in monologues, but I don't want to listen.
I am warm beneath this coat; I thought ahead and bought it for this purpose. A place to hide from the winter.
The snow, the road, and the wall meet somewhere in the horizon of evening. A single tree extends her limbs, naked beneath the sky as if this was a still, silent shower. The snow is a luxury of water.
Am I waiting, or standing?