If I wanted to fictionalise the account, I'd call it wonder, awe, amazement, But I won't, so I won't. Still, the small things startle me with their newness. A thick layer packed in the elbow of a tree, The steam of an engine running. Feral cats shivering on the backs of bikes. In winter, you smell like sweat. Laboured breath, Shifting layers of polyethylene, The crunch (gravel/bone) To stand still is to freeze, but moving is wind, and wind is death. We creep along like the mist. The snow fox - All blanche Curled up like a fetus in a vat. Nose and ears and tail tipped with a terrible, winestained purple. Feline But for that awful stillness Does your mind howl / do your limbs tremble against paralysis / do your dreams show you mercy / i horror to think