The Slow-Cooked Sentence

.

Nora’s snails, 2016.

I am silent. From behind glass, I hear a plane, a dog’s bark, and watch cedars sway in the wind. In slippered feet, I wander through dim rooms, so cool, so empty; the movement a thin line of progress, so small, so measured. A door is opened. A stair climbed. A damp towel returned to its hook from a spot on the floor. Tomorrow, only the basement floor will reveal my silvered snail-path, damp, glistening, in basement gloom.