Cate Wnek

Often a hyperawareness within me detects something elusive that could happen to my children, or me —however protected I imagine us to be. 

The cold air is unmoving, except for when the wind thrusts it violently making me bend in its wake. Trees mockingly bloom with snowball cotton tops. Gale force winds throw the storm door off its hinges as I make my way outside. I hear the birds who have come back to our yard to sing, though the snow clings, swaddling the muddy earth.