A Sketch on Ambiguity

The sun glowed orange, like it was burning hot, and the snowbanks melted, and the winter solstice far behind. Not so orange to forget those cold days of February when the last chill winds pierce, when it decides to burn white cold, when nose hairs and door locks and souls freeze.

The sun glowed orange on a student wearing a long cloak for warmth. I watched its hem ripple in string theory-driven chance as the kid walked along.

The sun glowed orange, and I decided the gym was rank with the loneliness of homosocial panic. That thought rolled on my tongue even as I bit back lactic acid.

The sun glowed orange, and I was, myself, so lonely, but the snow was melting.