I wish the snow would come. Down from its perch, sitting there on the top of the hill. Romancing from so far off in the distance. Like the vague edge of a dream. The more you reach for it, the more it melts into clear. Into nothing. Into the empty space between moments. Between the sun shining and setting.
Another guest is in the kitchen. I'm pretending not to be here. I don't know why. He's very nice. Sometimes I just want to pause, want to listen. To feel the company of the air, the privilege of unused time and stare at the wish on the hill.