He said the snow was gentle.
His eyes lifted into the milky glow of the frosted window as he pulled on the broken strap hanging from his backpack.
It has nowhere to go.
The stoplight sank and weaved against the gentle wind, its red eye winking between bends. And the car filled with the kind of quiet that happens only after a morning rush.
It just follows the wind.
His small voice left cracks in the glass.
Sometimes it moves straight down, and sometimes it stays awhile, just floating, wandering a bit.
The green light pulled us forward.
Do you remember the bird?
The one caught in the garage between the beach chairs and the cans of paint? Its small chest pulling for breath, the deep reach of want, the carnal thunder of a race still running.
And I thought about the pull, the tug to be right, to be made well, to be made known.
And I thought about the wings that flap so hard, trying. Trying.
Trying to make the wind.
The snowflakes kept falling, straight, then bent, coming to the ground shaken and soft. And the gentle landing, blessed by the wind, by the snowflakes already arrived, blanketing the hard ground below.
What happened to that bird?
I think she’s flying.
I think she is soaring.
Yes, little bird.
Let's follow the snow.