In winter, we were unknown to each other,
strangers in corduroy, our intentions concealed
by the rows of hearts or whales on our sweaters.
In winter, there was no Florinda Circle to speak of
and no creek, though every year, at least one of us
found it, alone, digging under the snow with an
I Heart Snow Freaky Freezies mitten, laying
one ear down on the ice as if we could hear it,
next summer’s mica swirling, bubbles from
the crawdads (crayfish?) rising in their sleep.