Amabile by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Amabile

Page 3

step, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the cold, open air.

The person walks alone, breath rising in slow, ghostly plumes. His boots leave crisp impressions in the thin crust of snow that formed overnight; shallow, imperfect ovals that stretch behind them like a breadcrumb trail for no one in particular. A wool scarf is wrapped high around his neck, the fabric catching tiny crystals of ice that cling to the fibers like glitter.

The forest edge on either side is a tangle of bare branches, each one etched sharply against the pale sky. The pines; few but deliberate, hold their color like stubborn survivors, their needles trembling in the faint wind. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a crow calls once, the sound echoing with that hollow winter clarity that makes distance hard to judge.

He pauses at a small overlook where the brook runs beneath a thin skin of ice. The water moves underneath; slow, dark, and secretive, its motion visible only in the subtle shifting of trapped air bubbles. The person leans slightly forward, watching, listening, letting the cold settle into their coat and gloves. There’s no hurry. Winter has a way of slowing everything down, even thought.