A field under snow — a slow story for the end of the day, when your attention is scattered — for winding down

The story, in full

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.

The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. 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. Your chest can be still now.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

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.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your fingers can stop doing anything at all.

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked. A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it.

If you're thinking about the next thing on your list, that list will still be there. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let your breathing do the rest.

Sleep. Just the weight. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. They will find their own way out.

Scattered attention is the raw material, not an obstacle.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

21 paragraphs, roughly 4 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for winter, still.