The wind is heavy

up on the hill.

 

I sit at the kitchen table with the curtains pulled

open, watching the branches of the trees and bushes sway right

then snap

then twist back around.

 

The pellet stove is a running car

in the corner,

the flames inside are

jumping

up and down, snatching each pellet

as it rains down.

 

Every now and then the sun peeks through,

in between gusts of snow,

the fat robins grasp the branches tightly,

the wood bending under their weight.

 

We talk about when spring might come,

after a few minutes of trying to guess what that dead animal is in the yard.

We walk back and forth,

window to window,

trying to get a better view.

Is it a squirrel, maybe? No,

from this window it looks like a mouse.

It’s a bird,

we decide it is a bird.

Most likely caught by the stray cat,

who meows at the door and

leaves tiny prints in the snow every night.

 

I’d forgotten what it was like

when air burned and

boogers froze.

 

We stare out the windows,

every day waiting for a sign,

a bit of green,

a budding flower.

 

We are waiting to one day

walk outside and the air is new,

strong with the scent of

worms and

dirt and

fresh rain.

 

We are

waiting.

 

Today is not the day,

but maybe

tomorrow.

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