Winter This Way Comes

The pen moves slowly, and dry. I pull more spit into my mouth as if this will help. The change has begun. I am still a boy. Each winter the snow carrying winds come, and it is the first time all over again. The speed of its hands amaze me.
As I prepare to write, deer feed forty feet away. They are unconcerned. They leave no guard. Al heads are down and away from me. This is trust. I have begun to change. Miles ago I walked to within ten feet of a wild red tailed hawk. I danced right upto it, talking all the while, and it never flew. It moved feathers to say that it could fly. It turned its whole body above me on its roust, eyes staying with my eyes as if it understood my stories, my need for company. After I said my piece, seeing that there was no note of fear in its cape, I wished it well, leaving it to watch me walk away. It said nothing. Sometimes we just need to be heard.
A '71 trailer is on the pull off ahead draws my interest. Walking past the suburban pull vehicle, I see the Hot Dog's for sale sign. My stomach is silent but I have to buy a chili dog because of my love for old trailers. I've had eight Airstreams. I buy, rebuild, travel a bit, then sell and begin again. It is not profitable--It is love.
Paticia opens the window. I would have bought a cup of sand on the beach from her. She lingers in my eyes, and my eyes ask me to talk about anything so they can hold her longer. Her face is kind, and she holds a collection of features I have seen before--and have always found an attraction to, but never have seen all on one face. Patricia wears jeans, and an olive-drab green coat that is not unlike my old pre-camo army jacket, with the addition of large buttons running to her waist. Her hair is short and dark. We talk about trailers, dreams, jobs, and her father being a vet. I am amazed I remember this because my eyes were so busy trying to memorize the smoothness of her face, the bridge of her nose, and still nod at all the right times. My eyes want to climb into hers to escape the cold; to be closer. I talk more, but I gave her my words, and I don't remember them. Inside my shell, I hear the confrence going on about how I'll never see her again. We still laugh simply, and talk on the surface as stranger being polite do.
It is easy to fall in love with lips and eyes. In minutes I will be gone from here, but it will be of considerable consolation to hear the full round flavor of her words as I linger waiting on sleep. I try to shut up and listen. I will hear enough from my mouth when again I am all alone and speak to the dark. This is hard for me. I want to trade words. It is what I do. It would be a little more than odd to stand and stare at her like a goon. I walk a mile away, and then I walk back. "Could you... would you consider writing to me sometime? I know it's silly, but I'd regret it for a long time it if I didn't ask. I'm trying to move away from regreting things."
"No, it's not silly. I'll write to you."
I smile, and I'm seven years old.
I do not feel my legs as I walk back up the hill. My backpack is all flowers and balloons . Isn't that life though? We can touch the sky at times without even standing on our toes.
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