Not a sound

I can tell you she was dressed all in black,

her leather boots, her tucked-in pants, her long, quilted nylon parka,

but I have no words to describe the sound of her voice.

My feet crunched behind her in the hard frozen snow.

She suddenly turned,

her rosy face flashed from out of her fur-lined hood.

And then, returning, she continued on.

In the ten steps of my quicker pace, I had caught up with her

and offered her something about not sneaking up on her.

She told me in warm tones she hadn’t heard me through her hood

but had only sensed my presence as I approached.

For a few short steps more as we reached the end of the bridge

I would have listened to her explain the whiteness of the snow

or the grayness of the sky or the coldness of the cold.

But instead she merely wished me well as we turned on to our separate ways,

the sound of her voice diminishing in my mind with the crunch of every step,

not even an after-tone remaining in my inner ear.