Migration

Cold That Burns

Somedays when she is walking home from school on the coldest, windiest days, she will want to lie down with the chill, with the heaviness of the cold pressed up against her. Snow rises in the current like smoke and she is the only fire. She can’t see the road, just a dim light ahead of her she hopes is home. Her goggles fog over. Really, she must sit. On this drift. Crawl inside this curl of sculpted snow. Only the wind. Only this cold that burns her up. Only this slowing body, this drowse. She drops to her knees, feels polished ice under them. Sleep is a great drift blowing over her. That window ahead glows. She is a dog, curling tightly in the snow.