A pile of pine needles, my breath in the air. Here’s the backyard, and the snow on top of it.

Where in the white I dropped my keys, I don’t know. I’ve dug like a rabid dog twelve haphazard holes, none forthcoming with any more than the acerate sheddings of the silent pines. The equally silent dirt is black murder on the white sheet my feet have trod paths to and fro all over. The air is no warmer, and my fingers are wet inside my gloves from the digging.

So I sit on my back porch. I sit and I wait here, waiting to find out how cold I will need to be before I break a window. I’m waiting to come up with some brighter idea, too. But the keys in my back pocket dig too deep to bear further reflection.

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