Sleep story: a field under snow, when you want to finish something — for the hours after a late shift

The story, in full

The fence posts are capped with snow and look shorter than they are. The farmhouse at the top of the hill has one window lit. 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. There are no footprints anywhere except the ones behind you. The snow on the branches is holding, and every so often a small amount slides off.

Feel your cheeks let go. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Nothing in this field needs to be done today or tomorrow. The sound of your own boots is the loudest thing for half a mile.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

A single crow crosses the field and lands on the fence, then thinks better of it. There is a gate at the far end of the field, half buried and not going anywhere.

If you're replaying a conversation, let it play. It'll finish on its own. Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay.

The words can start to blur now. Let the dark be ordinary. Let it all get further away.

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

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.

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