my snowshoe kept breaking

the shadows stretched long
across the fairway,
pink sunlight sculpted angels
in the snow in between the
doppelgangers of long and
bare winter branches,
like the angels he said are in
his head: caged next to demons
that he sets free
when he writes them down,
releasing them like birds
for the
world to see
or not see.
he says the same one
shows up in all his stories,
a fictional someone continually
trapped
in his head, no ink
able to proclaim her
emancipation.
avoiding questions of who
she could be, we
made small talk
about who we want
to be in twenty years and
clamped webs
to our feet and set out
marching through
the angels and shadows,
letting a dark wind clip our
cheeks as the setting sun
blurred the pink and black
into a January gray.

DLS