Sleep story: a field under snow

The story, in full

A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The snow came down all afternoon and has now stopped, leaving the field completely unmarked.

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. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let the mattress take all of it.

Your chest can be still now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere. The light is flat and grey and does not cast shadows.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you.

If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back. If you're irritated, that's allowed. Irritation is just weather.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let it all get further away. The words can start to blur now.

Let the quiet be boring. Let the next part go past without you. Almost nothing to do now.

Nothing here assumes you have done this before.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.

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