There is no silence here. Although the earth is nestled in soft white duvets of snow, tucked to the chin, and her breath steady and slow. Though the air is so still that the boughs of angled pines do not shiver, even at the sound of a distant avalanche. Even when te sky asks "What Animal is That?" and the whole world waits for a response. Even the moments between sounds, in the punctuation between acknowledgment. The stillness between an inhale and an exhale...thought creeps in; a moon dog, pressing against the night - a perfect circle of continuous noise. I cannot escape myself so I collapse into a-drift , cradled by some juncture between rest and panic - and watch the blue for a little longer. Deceivingly sinless, the cold on a clear day.