A field under snow (a sleep story), when you are not sure this will work — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your palms open if they were closed.

The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.

Feel your cheeks let go. Feel your wrists loosen.

The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Let them. You do not have to count them.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the quiet be boring. Nothing needs deciding tonight.

You can stop listening properly. Just the weight. Just the breath.

Not being sure it will work is a perfectly good reason to try it once.

No more sentences. Just the weight of you in the bed.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.