Trees that have shed all their leaves stand in long rows on both sides of the path. The snow on the grass is thin, so green shows through here and there, and on the dirt path to the right the tangled marks of someone who passed by remain. The sky is a white that has lost nearly all its color, and at the far end two people recede like dots.
Standing on a path like this, the breath cools once at the tip of the nose and then goes inside. The shoulders rise on their own and the hands curl up inside the pockets. The soles of the feet read the thickness of the snow through the bottoms of the shoes.
When the body draws in like that, the mind hurries a little too. Winter comes to be treated like a stretch to get through quickly.
At such a time, try walking about thirty steps with the ears open to sound. The sound of thin snow pressing down, the sound the soil or dry leaves underneath make along with it. While the ears are down at the feet, the steps slow on their own.
The same listening opens up at the evening dishes as well. When the sound of water striking a bowl and splashing and the sound of the suds dying down are heard separately, it would be good to check how much force has gone into the fingers holding the sponge. It may be force held on to keep from dropping a plate, or force that stiffened during the day and stayed as it was. It becomes a time for noticing only where that force sits, with nothing to count and nothing to fix.
Under the white sky the path runs on for a good while longer, and new marks are laid onto it one by one.
