The winter mirages ride in on the back of the third snow, or maybe the fourth. It is the snow after the snow when we stop using numbers to measure each drift, when we start dressing without looking outside.

The air is cold beyond counting, a reeducation. Constant pulsing of white. Wind scrapes each used and thin layer from car roofs and wood-paneled porches. It stirs the snow lazily as if into a drink. A frozen blue hole.

I am from here, so cold comes back to me like it has also come from me. It is like a leg of my own I have sawn off and thrown in the spring. In the fall I see it returning, banging around in the mouth of a dumb, faithful dog, and when he comes close, I grab it. I place the leg under my hip and I stand.