Heading up a hill, feet crunching in the snow.
Brushing a scarf out of a face.
Avoiding the areas where a cat had killed something recently,
blood on the snow like bright-red tears.
Almost up now,
boots crushing through the snow,
face blushing with cold but not turning away.
Passing a house with warm lights in the windows,
Leaving them behind.
Bushwhacking up a hill,
pushing through the difficulties
and reaching the top of a hill.
Unbunttoning a coat,
placing it on top of the snow,
sitting on it.
Staring out at the world,
sad-looking, dead bushes and sticks,
giant pines unaffected by the cold.
Breaking inside from the pain of past and present.
But pushing past.
Pushing a body to stand
but pushing a self