I always notice when winter arrives, the way it sits squarely on the shoulders of dark cows, the green having dropped into the soil. Weeks before the tree is brought inside, the smooth palm of fog dims the world smaller. Views are given piecemeal. Sounds made by the wild come from a place unseen. Once, an owl dipped in front of the headlights, something dangling from its grasp–a snake, a rat’s tail, I didn’t know. The people who raised me dressed the family in wool. The heat around my neck grew into a penchant for hung lights. That I would be celebrated. That I am given to communicating with ephemeral beings, with spirits, with hooved beasts who fly above my head. These migrations arouse me. I became skilled at tying bows. From somewhere deep inside, a dream arises nightly of a plump goose being strangled by bare hands. I think always of the bird’s proportions. From neck to chest. How fleshy, how corpulent. Rainboots for bloodwork. The bleating of lost livestock makes my cheeks glow. I sneak around, keep my face blank like a man’s. There are clues. I hide them under my sheets. Snow pushing the world inside, snow pushing my body further behind layers of clothing. My body becomes knowable within this privacy. I bring snow to my face and my nipples harden. Everyone is going to sing. The mudroom is for seeing knees. Ornaments placed within the crook of the tree, faces of strange animals peer out. The carved tiger, the pink sow. Miniature bowls emerge from glass cabinets to hold pastel mints. Moonlight, a sodden field, icicles. Nightgown on floor. Fingers working. Pressed body against cold window. The cows below, bellowing.