a wooden bench hits my thighs.
three dark planks in a horizontal row.
i pull down the steel bar and readjust
my balaclava slips, cold with the moisture of my heavy breaths.
my eyes sting.
pupils contracting: my eyelashes are coated in frost, the landscape is framed in a white vignette
alone and real and free.
though i am confined, the pine trees reach for me, aspirational,
but i am dynamic: they can not touch.
