Hunched leaves fly across the line of bird tracks in snow.
I stand outside the window wishing you would all come back.
No one cared if the rented movies were good. We had the humping dog story and the backless dress story.
I step in closer. The furniture is covered with sheets like ghosts playing twister. Your darkroom still set up in the back hallway.
You made a rare print, your son's face under a cloth in the corner of the frame. His hand outside the fabric holding it taut, the surface pale and grainy like an almost empty beach.
