I sit in the morning and watch a flag perched over someone’s door, the colors whirling around in the wind. There are three barren trees near-by, each a different variety, each suited to the high suburban spread. They sit there without moving, their branches still, impervious to whatever wind is teasing the flag. The sun is soft over the plains now, the snow white with shadows. Driving in last night the sun was low and hard over the mountains and it would catch me in between passing houses, shocking my sight, becoming everything and burning bright through my eyes until I could hear crackling and smell the burning bone of my skull. Cooking leaves with a magnifying glass, the small flag of flame a victory once it finally appears, turning in the wind and spreading. My eyes are open now and the sun has gone and the car pulls up to another version of home.
Tomorrow we will leave a stone on the thin sheet of ice covering the pond out back and wait to see the sun heat it enough for it to drop through the ice, leaving a perfect hole in its stead.