Used condoms in the snowbank amongst icicle litter and dime bags. Evidence of non-latex unrolled on cold, tender skin — a fast-bent fuck, cum drawn under a streetlight or behind a stone wall.

Low sky, reach up to graze it. The view across the valley is steam trails and gray and beige stone and snow and closed windows. No one is looking. Winter is inward, navel gazing, future-thinking sedentary.

Heads bent to the wind and to each other. No pass-by pausing speculation about the feel of skin or heft of breast. Carry on, carry on. Summer brings those thoughts and we walk faster as if to get there sooner.

In the forest, ice drags on branches, picking off the littlest and the weak. This snow will melt, received by needy roots. Sap will flow.