The birch bark. The cold gambling with the earth. The birch bark peeling off in large swaths. The people standing around on foot heels that ache. The birch bark falling to the ground in pieces big enough you could write on them. Her saying is it time yet. Big enough you could write a novel on them. Him checking his watch. The people huddled together in coats waiting. And maybe one of them rushing to the scene a bit late. Maybe one dropping papers as the other eyes watch, and stopping to grab each sheet before it blows away in the cold wind. The people congregated, waiting for the great disruptor. And maybe some people stopping to help gather the papers. And him checking his watch again. And maybe it starts to rain.
He turns to her in the crowd and says, he’s late. And other people around them nodding. The pine needles starting to freeze above their heads. And maybe they were already frozen. The people starting to move from foot to foot. She turns to her friend and says, it’s about damn time. The pine needles freezing and starting to fall off. Her friend saying, he should be here by now. And maybe the people nodding together in agreement. The pine needles falling green at their feet. The everything above starting to fall, because the cold won the bet. And maybe someone says, aren’t pine needles supposed to turn brown first.
The coats in dark colors pushing against each other. The different grays in the sky neck in neck. The birch bark peeling like a lip. The puffy coat material squishing against itself, everything ballooned, everything stretching into everything else. And maybe the people start to get restless. Her saying he’s got to be here soon. The people checking their devices to make sure the great disruptor is coming. The one who dropped their papers finally having collected each one, stood still, and lost the pink in their face as time passed. The snow starting to fall like little pieces of bark. Like little words. The puffer coats becoming each other. The little words falling at the people’s feet. The scuffing of shoes. The people happy to have a soft surface to rest their aching heels.
The podium in the center of the coats. The microphone that doesn’t work for cold. The people watching the empty podium. The wires that lead from the microphone to nowhere to sky darkening and then lightening again. The people holding their mittens to their noses and ears. And maybe one of them says, hey. The ash and snow and bark falling and piling to their knees. Maybe one of them says, what are we even waiting for, anyway. The words piling at their feet. The people shush each other to strain their ears, the cold ash filling eardrums to the brim. And maybe the great disruptor really is coming. And maybe he will come to give a speech. Maybe he will say just the right thing.
The needle-less trees cracking in the cold and falling straight over, down. The wet ground a composite mix of things. The people in their coats shuffling their feet and sliding through the dirty slush. The impatient boots stepping around trying to regain balance. And maybe one of the boots steps wrongly. Maybe the ankle turns as the shoe fits the dent like a puzzle. Hey, he says again, as someone trips and pushes into the next, and into again. The mass of coats swaying like the flurries in the wind. The people grumbling as they skate around on the slippery world. And the mass can’t get its equilibrium back. The actors keep swaying around each other. All they can do is wait for an equal and opposite force.
And maybe the people forget who they are waiting for. The scene becoming a tower and rebuilding itself again. Maybe one of them writes the bark. The scene becoming a story told to no one. The people becoming the snow, and ash, and everything that falls. And maybe he will come. There is no down. And maybe. There is no falling. The people in their coats don’t move each other. There are no words. And maybe they will wait there forever. And maybe they can’t.