Dream of a Sunday afternoon in Williamstown

I don’t remember which of us asked,

Do you want to get lunch?

It didn't matter.

We must have agreed without speaking.

The wind swept the snow flat,

holding the long, blue shadows

of two eighteen-year-olds.

The other students moved past us,

a steady current. We stepped out of it.

Inside the dining hall,

the wood beams absorbed the noise.

You ate your spinach,

moving with a sudden, uncoordinated grace.

It was a relief to watch you.

We talked about the future.

We ate as though the food

were something else entirely,

something to sustain us against the cold.

When we left,

the snow was just snow again.

Whatever we had briefly held

was already vanishing

into the winter afternoon.