Tonight there is no wind.
The winter trees are a still of dark lava spraying from the Earth's pores. My locomotion and heat is a lighthouse, or better-a small factory furnace, a lone coal man craving his bed, his wife and his daughter's snore. A peanut butter sandwich sits in his belly and spilled coffee dries on his overalls. I trot the ironing board and vacuum. I learn my mechanations aren't to be considered dancing.