hiked deep into the woods
off pine hill
sitting at the bluff’s edge

breathing in winter’s last geese
folding over silent
sharing the grey water.

reaching into my pocket
for a state quarter—
illinois— I press the cold face
into my palm, waiting.

for a perfect moment
that never comes,
a peace that never plays,
street traffic whirring,

far away, but not far enough.
a stranger with a hood
walks the path behind me—
and I hate

that I turn red.
chill touches my shoulder;
I don’t dress for the season
anymore, and

the heart in my right palm
beats stubbornly
against the copper-nickel.

but I take another deep breath,
and flip the coin,
promising
to obey old ethos:

always leave
a little
to chance.