It began to snow, erasing the horizon.
A wedge of geese faded in and out,
a drifting channel on some rustic television.
The creek crackled with cold where
the current wasn't.
Flakes fluttered like moths,
then melted where they touched me.
The history of flowers' future lay buried
where I rested.
Exhaling the breath of others,
I tasted them in me,
watching, with eyes closed,