In the middle of the conversation, someone looked out the window, glass in hand, head still tilted obediently, while the voice began to quiver and slip, seeking the thin crack where the glazing was worn, a seepage of snowflakes or goose down, the ice melting, the amber light translucent, the conversation has almost ended or abruptly or stopped or who can tell why someone is looking suddenly and the window is sliding open, where the voice went, where the dry thin snowflakes entered, in the middle of the conversation, glass in hand, head still tilted obediently, the hearth glowing in the still, amber light.
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Andrea Moorhead
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