The air was frigid, the windows creaking,

at intervals, scaring the cat as it strolled

through the kitchen; I sat at the table, coffee

in hand, looking out to the tree branches scarring

across the view of the street below, fingers

obscuring the minute details of the branches

themselves, small green buds springing up,

miniscule soft leaves gently caressing the

cool breeze, the breath of the world still

behind the seasons, a cough of winter still

left, threading its way through the town,

a transfer of the times that it did not seem

to enjoy; the steam curled upwards from

my cup, intertwining in midair like snakes,

or dragons, for that matter, dancing into

transparent coils; voices of invisible birds

cutting through the walls, the crevices in the

window frame, the cat leaping up beside me

to observe and find, but with no luck; invisible

prey cannot be found, hand and foot, for

to be invisible is to be invincible, or so said

someone long ago.