High banks, cast up by wind and plow,
heavy as crowd barriers against my thighs.
I lift one leg, then another, an exaggeration of walking,
cheeks red-raw into a westerly, boots somewhere below.
I cannot see my feet.
All I wanted was a photo.
I manage, with clumsy fingers, to put one mitt more or less back on,
The stone angels are motionless, arms frozen.
As I would be too, were I – just a little lower than them – to linger here,
in the company of January.