when the warm came last week, it would turn the white back to water during the day.
then the night would turn it back to the slickness and the slide. and
we’d come out in the morning, when
the sun was first shining over the shed, and
we’d step on the thin stuff with our boots and our paws and our
stiff, shattered bodies. and it was so loud, like
the breaking of glass. in the quiet morning cold,
it was stentorian.
today, some men came and shattered everything
in the room where the Bald Man gives me a bath.
and the crashing.
I listened to it and I didn’t run or wince.
instead, I intermittently slept.
I am no longer scared of the shatter.