I spend the day putting paper in boxes, ledgers on shelves; fishing receipts out of their yellow warp. The Christmas plates go into annual storage: the fifth one is tired of turning golden rings over and over in place. The miracle of paper is how long it stays whole until calculations distill as ink. Tap down each vertebra, listening for the hollow not filled with rubber or ashes. You say it may snow tonight, though really you mean tomorrow night. Cold shore, cold fog, the silence of stones ladled out by skittering sand bodies. Time is a trickster as always: we jump in and out of its nets.