A list of things released from the snow banks or recently dropped: a perfectly unbruised Granny Smith apple; two foil packets marked “HYPE”; dog shit; pine cones; pine branches; rhodie branches; nut hulls; more dog shit. Up and over the hill — a river of catalpa pods, as if Winter set out to weave a basket edge to the sidewalk and gave up in fatigue. On Wakefield:  a wicker Santa head; a blue puzzle piece (sky? ocean?); Corona beer caps. Back on Jackson: bags with squished remains of lunch; foil; shards of a paper plate; small branches; large branches. At the end of one driveway, a newspaper disgorged from plastic, wet and re-wet and driven over so many times it is tempting to the papermaker in me, but I know I could never bring myself to shovel it up (because it would require forethought? because I want to see how long it stays there? because the papermaking supplies are who-knows-where?).  Everywhere: dog shit. On some telephone poles: plastic covered appeals for neighbors to pick up their dog shit. An old water bottle filled with bird seed. Looking up for a moment: a hawk sails to the south, with specks of audacious passerines flapping behind. Down low: pine branches; oak branches; sycamore hulls; and dirt, dirt, dirt.

Here and there: brave spades of hosta shoving aside ice and dirty snow, making their proclamations of spring.

Rounding the corner to the house (here, I let the leash go and command “go home!”): mud, hemlock detritus, an entire row of hosta (mine) peeking up. It is snowing again. Did I mention that?

I am wondering if I shall find whatever pieces of myself fell off during this winter. There seems no guarantee.