The sound of creek water under ice

摘要

The window in my office can't protect you from the day outside-though coffee in Styrofoam can. You empty a cup and pine branches from early childhood fill with snow. Our conversation is a window, open and then closed-but mostly open. Each revelation is a body advancing from your wound like dead flies on my window sill. I used to ask people like you to recall a Golden Age in life when the sound of creek water under ice could capture a headline but questions like that made me lose my way so now I mostly listen as you explain how the silence between us reads like a novel you'd never have written on your own.