February 6, 2015 - 21:01
My walk down to the tree is more of a challenge than I expect. There's just enough ice and just enough hill that it's hard not to slip. I can feel when the rubber links on the bottoms of my boots grab onto one of the small patches of grass that pokes through the ice. When I sit on the bench it takes a while for my thoughts to focus. My week has been busy I'm not sure of the assignment My fingers are getting cold Why didn't I bring a scarf Was this a stupid spot to pick. I'm not sure how I'm going to turn the things I'm thinking into something cohesive that I can share with other people.
When I'm calmer, I hear birds chirping. I listen to the birds but I can't see them. The wind bites but the sun warms my face. Everyhing else is warmed by the sun, too. It's late afternoon and everything is bathed in gold. The practice field below me is a sheet of ice that glares back at the sun. I can hear other students; I can hear their laughter and the crunch of ice melt under their shoes. The canada geese are so loud but I can still hear the soft soft creak of tree branches moving. Tiny circles radiate from where the branches meet the trunk of the tree, like ripples in a pond or the skin on an elephant's knees. I can see the birds now; they fly from one side of the hill to antoher. One hops on some ice and I can hear the ice crack.
When the half hour is up, I light a cigarette and try to figure out a less icy way back to my dorm. Almost immedeately, I slip and scrape my knees through the fabric of my jeans.