In the hammock, swinging and still. The shape of an egg, all our limbs intertwined. And the snow mounded beneath. This juxtaposition. You said, Let's go out and lie under the heaped blankets, the quilt your grandmother made. And I thought, why not this proximity, this undone thing — the hammock not having been taken in, but left for winter to do its work. The trees were bare, the one remaining leaf brittle, rattling softly at branch's end. Our breath was wet and sticky against our scarves, against our cheeks. I began squinting and then with eyes closed, knowing you were there by the tangible, that sense. The sun burning our lids ever so slight, no matter.