Whenever I look out at the snowy mountains at this hour and speak directly into the ear of the sky, it's you I'm thinking of. You're like the spirits the children invent to inhabit the stuffed horse and the doll. I don't know who hears me. I don't know who speaks when the horse speaks.
From The Snow Watcher, published by Ontario Review Press, 1998. Copyright © 1998 by Chase Twichell. All rights reserved. Used with permission.