A field under snow, when you cannot concentrate on anything else — for winding down

The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. 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. Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. Your hands are warm inside your gloves and cold at the wrists.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

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 your cheeks let go. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

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 ankles can go loose now. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Let your breathing do the rest. Let it all get further away.

Let the dark be ordinary. Stay with the weight of your body. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Sleep. Just the dark.

When concentration is gone, work with what is left.

The end. Sleep well.