Holland

After hours of brown fields and empty trees, the land was a little different.

Winter held on in snow banks in open defiance of spring.

Fog made the town silent, and rental houses were empty–

quiet, even for a Sunday morning,

Hands turned crimson as one lake emptied into the vast Other.

A lone fisherman and his dog sat motionless next to Big Red with still lines.

I nodded and offered a low good morning.

The ice moving past in the water made me think of retrograde.

Then, land’s end:

cold as far as I could see.

The concrete walkway stood over boulders stacked against time.

I walked out on the snow as the water lapped arrhythmically, oblivious.

I felt small.

And vast.

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