A field under snow — a slow story for the end of

The story, in full

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. The air is so cold it feels dry, and your breath is visible for a long time.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

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

If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you feel restless, that's a feeling, not a failure.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Let it all get further away. Let your breathing do the rest. Let the next part go past without you.

Wanting to finish something is a better motivation than wanting to relax.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.