March— bright

beads slung over a thin

wool skin

The sun stretches its rays and jumps out of bed seconds earlier each day, the light blinding off the snow. I watch my step on the white-masked ice of the driveway. The wind bites. For a year, the payroll clerk cut herself the weekly check she wanted, not earned. The brass of it. The subzero air burns, burns. We don’t dally, Hubby and I, protecting our hardscrabble eighteen-year shrink biz. We look her in the eye and fire. She slams the door, and birdsong streams in. Evil zero: Good won! Why is it some people live by preying on others? Still morning, and already I have accomplished something huge. It’s a pleasure to expand my ribs to the max with each breath.

PHOTO CREDIT: Chris Bergin