when the warm came last week, it would turn the white back to water during the day.

then the night would turn it back to the slickness and the slide. and

we’d come out in the morning, when

the sun was first shining over the shed, and

we’d step on the thin stuff with our boots and our paws and our

stiff, shattered bodies. and it was so loud, like

the breaking of glass. in the quiet morning cold,

it was stentorian.

today, some men came and shattered everything

in the room where the Bald Man gives me a bath.

(a bad??)

and the crashing.

the banging.

I listened to it and I didn’t run or wince.

instead, I intermittently slept.

bravery, innit.

I am no longer scared of the shatter.

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