By Parnell Thill
Notes from the Small Pond
Nikolaos
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The old man squints through the cold air and down to rooftops and updrifting chimney smoke, silver-snow farm fields, the golden glow of street lamps, dark holes of wilderness. The night surrounds him as he sails in air, his eight trained beasts heaving vapor from the effort. Their legs kick rhythmically, their breath deep and chugging as they drag on their reins, pulling.
The old man sighs and feels his tired bones. “I am old,” he murmurs. He tugs off heavy mittens and kneads, with gnarled fingers, the thickly bunched muscles of his hands, exhausted. Downward he looks, ever downward to...
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