The wind cuts through two layers and the sherpa lining of certified work gear.
Or maybe it's just everywhere else that's cold.
A walking, heated thoracic cavity within icy knees and fingers.
Breach of protocol aside, it's a straight march to the dead center and the cracked stone table.
Is it secret, is it safe - that burden left like so much litter, tucked up underneath this Fount of Over-Looked Blessing?
Somehow, it is. Right where I painfully dropped it - or was it wrenched from my Stockholm grasp?
And maybe that's why it all feels too easy -
Everything is already where it is supposed to be.
