ALL TALK STOPS

The long, cold winter had preserved her. Now that the ground was softening, I was to cut her free and bury her.

In my loneliness I had lathed down the river’s surface to within a breath of her. By February I had polished the ice until her entire nakedness was under glass. There I would stand until the edge of death.

Now I must free her if she is not to be discovered, gas bloated, bobbing at the water’s edge down stream.