by Zebulon Huset

And the frostbite, and the numbness. Snow and shivering. And the rock-hard dirt and the white capped streetlights unlit. The biting wind, the drifts and the black ice. Digging the car out and scraping the windshield. The end of the CD requiring a switch, the anti-lock brakes and the tires losing traction. And the stillness of night. The arctic hare hidden, the oozing maroon hue, the closing eyes, the solitary footprints moving steadily into the dark forest.

Zebulon Huset is a high school teacher, writer and photographer. He won the Gulf Stream 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and his writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Atlanta Review, Meridian, North American Review, The Southern Review, Fence and many others. His short prose chapbook Between Even Rows of Trees is forthcoming from Bottlecap Editions, and his Substack The Writer’s Notebook with Zebulon Huset launches this May.