The ancient Japanese art of pornography
She is barely discernible from the color of snow except for the lick of red
pressed against her skull. It looks as if someone has blessed her. Her body is
shuddering, making soft breaks in an otherwise expansive stillness. Her beak is
half buried, weakly trying to toss off the cold. There is nothing in this place, a
hollowed field of unbearably placid white. Even his own presence is barely
marked, pressing only lightly against the snow. There is only her labored
breathe, the unmeasured rise and collapse of a feathered chest, a sudden
impulsive twitch in the blade of a bent wing.
He picks her up, massages the wing back into place. She is warm where she is
Her weight is full and satisfying in his arms as she bumps up against his
chest with the heavy steps of walking through snow. Carrying her home, he
looks courageous, like a hunter or a father bringing home a fattened prize to
expectant children but he is neither of these things. His face is smooth for his
years, uncreased from lack of emotive cause. Both happiness and sorrow have
overlooked him, passing over him like distracted ghosts.