February (thinking of Wilfred Owen’s “Exposure”)

Thick white muffling snow outside, a hotel duvet of down and cotton.

Inside the house is loud with quiet.

The stove ticks, the metal expands and contracts as logs burn hot and then down splutter down into jewel crusted ash.

The cuckoo clock ticks, comfortable and confident in time passing that will be undisturbed even by the Amazon van lost in drifting uncleared roads.

The cat wheezes and turns over again in his sleep .

But nothing happens.

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