A field under snow, if you have done this a hundred times — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

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

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let the mattress take all of it.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are.

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

Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine. Your ankles can go loose now.

The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

Your chest can be still now. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.

Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Let the quiet be boring. Sleep.

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

The words can start to blur now. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

If you have done this a hundred times, change one small thing tonight.

The end. Sleep well.

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