and it’s safe to venture out,
we walk to the end of the drive,
out to the road, through the mire
and torn branches. The smell
of our wood fire mingles
with eucalyptus. We have only
the moon and our plastic
flashlights. I can’t remember
the last time it was this dark;
how slowly eyes adjust.
The makeshift brace we rigged
held the fence, again. I draw
my scarf up higher, tighten
my hood. A crisp silence creaks
and then echoes. The dogs chase
and bark and bite at their frozen
breath, we step over what trees
have shaken loose. Sometimes
it feels like the passing of minutes
is the only measure of movement
on a long road. Monotony
of the white line, how you know
what’s coming around any bend.
But, the comfort of that—
slump of their shoulder, tap
of their toothbrush on the side
of the sink.