He walked away after everyone else had. There was nothing heroic about it.

Isolated by snow. Suffocated by cold.

He watches the birds—flying and chirping and preening.

He thinks, Maybe I could learn.

And falls into a whiskey haze.

He grows weary of these text messages—lazy and fleeting and meaningless.

He wishes for more.

But it’s like wishing for the moon to warm the night.