It is nearly dusk.
Everyone is wearing bright orange,
so as to be seen, but not hunted.
Last night we watched deer dash
across high-beam highways,
hesitating slightly before slinking into
roadside brush. As if weighing
the pros & cons of
invisibility. We are quiet,
warm-blooded things too,
but not as timid. We don’t freeze
in a flash of blinding light. We glide
along snow-streaked trails,
through patches of shriveled milkweed, hands
chill-bitten & pale & stained with last night’s sugar-
sweet cranberry-orange sauce.
Above us, the moon
barely stays afloat, bobbing in
a sky of lavender. The sunset
puts on a good show, & it’s strange
to feel this content: no
catches, no caveats. Just the alien-ness
of a winter without worry. The army
of neon reflective vests leads the way, marching
up each hill like a line of
turn signals in traffic. We are designed
to stick out like a sore thumb,
to contrast with our environment:
alive & moving &
pumping with blood:
blinking, blinking, blinking
in the darkness.