They’ve stopped holding gloves on their walks.
He is talking about himself and she is shivering.
Bare trees are casting blue shadows on the snow and
the wind is blowing unimpeded across the frozen lake.
A mallard falls chest-first into a footprint.

She interrupts his story about himself.
“I’m freezing,” she says, “let’s cut across, it’d be faster.”
He refuses and she knows he’s afraid.

A white spot on her cheek may be frostbite.
Then her expression changes and she trudges out onto the ice.
The snow is hard and easy to walk on and she doesn’t respond to his protests.
Near the opposite shore she smiles,
a rusty pick-up is parked on the ice.