The Birth of Andromeda by Tuco Amalfi
Listen. There is the sluice of seed-churned soil under a crust of snow. Bird song shudders in dimpled ice, sending circlets of disturbance across the water like the sound itself had been a skipped stone.
This winter we’ve had practically no snow in the Hudson Valley, and I’ve found it extremely disconcerting to my organism, as if the year was lacking some sort of crucial punctuation.