Down the hill, some cows are staggered in a field,
just fleecing off the cold.
An hour and an hour.
Beside the road, mountains keep rising
in the rotten unrelenting.
The screaming wind continues to make us frail.
I sweep the cold against the doorframe.
It is the hundredth day, or more. Another sad one.
We know our immediate neighbors’ names.
We used to nod but now we hustle past
and pull inside—watch the deliberate fist of it.
Across the dirt, a coyote passes the old logs.
We sip stale soup.
Night husks to drifting snow.