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sloths in the snow
"sloths in the snow"
We move like the hour hand’s shadow—
not the hand itself—
through a white that forgets our names.
Each branch is a question
we answer with our weight,
fur gathering frost
like a second, quieter pelt.
The air tastes of sleep.
Our claws hook into the hush,
pulling the day toward us
one breath at a time.
Somewhere, the jungle dreams of us—
green vines curling in their sleep—
but here, the snow keeps falling,
and we keep becoming
the shape of stillness
it can’t quite cover.
.
