It’s winter—and we’re walking
on a path where
there used to be leaves.
You point me in the direction
of where the car ran off, right there,
right behind a series of bushes
that look like birds,
the skeleton of a path
left over
beneath the trees.
A mailbox marks the place, red
with rust and old wind—old
with something more than it’s just the wind again,
and you begin to look too far north,
up over a hill that’s become
a glacier
to a boy that is
there—that is not there—in the
distance.