One winter it was so cold. I was wearing mittens. Or gloves?
It didn’t matter. All the latches were rusted. I was 7? Or 8?
That didn’t matter either. I had to stand on a bucket
to reach the latches. It was so cold. The babies were
already the size of giant snowballs. Ricocheting off the walls,
the door, the box, the floor. With the doe, the hutch
was too small. Huddled together, they could keep warm.
The next morning. When I opened the door. Red snow. On my way
to the school bus. Red snow. On the sidewalk. Across the lawn. Down the hill.
Red snow. On my shoes.
The mouths of dogs.