Thaw

The porch light is a sick yellow smear

bleeding into the 3:00 AM fog.

I’m standing here in my thin coat,

watching the smoke from my breath drift off

into the pines.

Then the pond groans.

A sharp, tectonic snap that sounds like

a bone breaking under a heavy boot.

A hairline fracture zips across the black

surface, a jagged thought I can't take back.

The world is shifting its weight in the dark,

trying to decide if it’s time to break.

I flick the ash over the railing

and wait for the next sound to tell me

if I’m still standing on solid ground.