There’s this cold wind.
It blows through the trees, stops at an orchard, gives the fruit a kiss and moves across the road.
It stretches down the hill, rolls through the lawn, brushing the dog on the corner’s black coat.
The dog yelps and runs away.
The cold wind doesn’t stop.
Its tendrils push through my coat while I shovel the walk.
It’s blue and grey and floats around me for a minute.
I stop what I’m doing, waiting for it to move on.
The wind stays. My bones are still cold.