Returning home she flings mittens on the table. Back to the beginning and first things first—the only answer to her bad mood, that drift of nothingness setting her teeth on edge. It wasn’t supposed to be like this but it often was, she recognized the mood like her old hat fallen from the shelf in the closet, the one she couldn’t reach and had to use a hanger to pull things down from. Outside, light from the moon fell in a slow drip onto the snow. The smell of coffee lingered though no one had drunk any. Who cares where it came from, it would soon be gone, leaving an empty pot with a layer of scum in the bottom that someone would have to clean out. Not her if she could help it, she’d no time for chat or cleaning, her forehead furrowed, the crease between her eyes deepening.

silence, a blank page, the rising moon