By Josh Mahler
Coda The snow is not a dream, it falls and we lower our heads, moving on in a straight line, the wet roads and slow traffic, night underway where one regards the rumble of the train rolling into L’Enfant as yet another signal to follow. We are the foreground sketch on the city walls, a swirling view under the blurry moon sharing its only light with the windows. I see the workers working late behind them, the weariness in their shoulders, leaning forward filling their hands with a film of sweat. They report the facts and calculate their worth. I see them without them seeing me. I watch with envy the battles they carry, like a cracked tooth, a hangnail, yet I stamp my feet for warmth and smile relieved that I do not inherit the work. My day is done and my breath is stale, the falling snow reassuring, the fragrance of blood settling into puddles of instinct, in the vein, the sound of the train as I turn and walk on toward the door, finding my seat, and the outline of my footprints remain on the sidewalk, one after the other, like the minutes turning and the wind stirring a fresh layer of dust, like the certainty of nature in spite of our eyes. We vanish as a leaf would, succumbing, letting go like an eyelid falling into sleep, the dream a heavy coat on my back.
Photo by Dillon Kydd