If solemn had a rifle, she’d go hunting all alone. She wouldn’t tell a soul, and in the cold of winter when the snow is thick and when the conversations slow she’d brave the quiet of the forest patch that stands a mile away from home, stands there with its trees so soft and white above the crooked alleys that their trunks have made, and she’d be silent–silent with them all and with her finger on the trigger she’d go aiming in the dark for what she’d missed so much of daytime. For it’s awful black this time of year, and solemn’s eyes are moonstruck by the flakes of falling sky now piling up, scattered little notes that no one reads for long before they pile up much too high then melt away, but solemn’s blue eye’s aiming nonetheless at something somewhere and the nighttime tells her quietly to pull–and not a soul would know, because the trees stay awful calm, and solemn wouldn’t breathe a word before she’d go, for if solemn had a rifle she’d go hunting all alone.

#Matanuska #Alaska

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