snow drifts

It is so cold here. I’ve got to keep running, even in the wind that makes it 30 below. Even in the night that pushes me towards exhaustion. I’ve got to keep running because my insides are hot with fury. I run to the airport along the river, to the boat landing where nightly I talk to God. Ten black helicopters are circling the isles, landing and taking off. The sound of choppers hot with fury grinds to pieces the night quiet, and the answers I need. I run backwards towards the boat landing, watching as a helicopter heads towards me, just twenty feet above the ground, not rising. I dive and lay flat in the snow as it passes overhead, whipping glassy ice against my face with its ferocious wind. It hovers above the frozen river then turns, coming towards me again. I run hard through deep crusty snow that bruises my shins, sideways into bare river trees. Trying frantically with cold hands to put headphones in my ears and start music, I yell “I hate you” at the hungry black military snakes flying back and forth between the runway and a place in the northwestern stars, trying to burn out my flame in an apocalyptic nightscape.