I am a rustling on the side of a cold road at 2 a.m. The snow is fresh and feathery atop the hard, frozen settled snow underneath, so the footsteps of any unfortunate who might stiffly tread alone on this stretch would crack rather than crunch. But no such traveler is out treading this road tonight, so no one but you can hear my stirring.
Or, can you? Can you hear the creaking of frozen, bare branches, the restless tossing of debris you’ve whipped up? For you are the wind causing all the co-motion. I am tousled by your force in whatever direction you twirl me, I am swept up in you and you spin everything around me so that my rustling is indistinguishable from all the unrest.
The howling and gusting of you makes me lonely, for you can go wherever you like, rush through any street you like, but I’ll be left here, wintery, unheard, disheveled, and displaced, wishing you would stay, knowing it is impossible, settling into my new disarray, hopelessly aching for your return so you can blow me away.