A shadow creeps across the moon as the sun disappears behind the earth. And the moon glows in orange and grays.

But on Earth, a cushion of clouds floats low to the ground, a fog that hides the disappearing moon. The clouds are still, and the veil of fog drops over the land.

So as the moon vanishes, it is hidden.

The fog, like a tide coming in, pours over the parking lot of a supermarket, and in the lot, in the middle, there is a square of grass, covered mostly with snow. Dead grass is seen in patches where the snow has melted.

In the middle of this square an old tree sits, bare and vulnerable. Its branches are like forks and handles, like the webbed veins of a bloodshot eye. They are vast and scattered.

The fog tickles and teases each branch tip. It is everywhere, indifferent to which way it flows, a uniform mist that floats like a school of fish. It is the only thing moving.

The tree trunk is bordered by snow, and patches of grass. Under it, against its trunk, there is a man who sits on top of the snow. He is still, he frowns, and looks up.

He stands up. The slope of his shoulders is steep and his arms droop and swing lifeless like the broken wings of a bat, they fold into his body. His face, with weary sinews, droops and folds and yields an effortless frown that, too, seems broken and lifeless. He stares at the wet sky that crowds him, and the sulfur lights, towering and lining the lot, cast yellow light that glows on the fog, the tree, the man, and the patches of dead grass.

He turns around and stares at the tree. His old eyelids stretch open, wide, and then he squints. Wire rakes line the corners of each eye. He bites his lip and lays his palms on his head. His fingers pull at his wiry hair. He drops his hands over his face, stretching his cheeks and sighing. He looks young when he pulls down on the skin of his face. Then he lets go. The wrinkles jump back and his face has canyons. He squints again as he grabs the tree’s trunk with both hands.

The trunk is wide, and old. The earth opens up for it. The roots must be huge to support such an immovable column.

The trunk has scars, and cracks, splintered gashes. It looks like a wooden raisin and the old man starts to pick at the bark. He scratches off a fold and throws it into the lot. Grit and crumbs from the bark cling to his wet hands, and he sees the dirt and frowns a great arch.

His mouth opens, and his chest creeps wide and sinks small, and the pace between his breaths shortens. He looks up and breathes full then short again. The fog thickens, chills him with its yellow waves. The branches of the tree cut eddies in the coursing fog. How fast the man’s breath has become, how his tattered clothes dance in the grow and shrink of his breath. His mouth is wide open, his teeth yellow. The yellow bulbs from the tower lights that line the lot tarnish his face. The snow is oiled by the yellow light, but where there is wet dead grass it is black.

He paces around the tree. He kicks snow, and new wrinkles form on his face. His brow is pushed forward and his eyes dart, he looks like a snake with his brow hovering over deep-set eyes. He kicks, the snow flies onto the pavement. He grits his teeth. His jaw muscles bulge and make small hills. The slight whiskers on his face are small posts that glow yellow at their tips.

He runs in a circle, kicks snow, runs, kicks, kneels and slides his hands over his face, pulling it young and then letting go and then it’s old again. He jumps up, closes his fist, and punches the tree trunk. There is a dull thump. He leaps, opens his mouth, slams it shut and stares with big eyes and the many branches above him. He sees the fog, but not the moon that shrinks under the Earth’s shadow above it.

Black syrup bleeds down his fingers. His hand is black and yellow and his ring finger is crooked and still. Drops of blood fall from it, making ink blots in the snow. He nods his head, he shakes his head, he runs his bent hand over his face. There is a streak of black on his cheek. He nods his head.

He walks away from the tree to a large stretch of remaining snow. He slowly kicks away at it. He draws in the snow with his unbroken hand. He draws a curve, he makes a letter and then makes another, as his face looks calm and drops. He looks less scared. He focuses on the letters he draws in the snow. Each letter he draws quicker, more certain. He is almost smiling, but then he sneers, and his face tilts, and the sentence is done. He turns back and looks at the tree.

A low branch grows out of the trunk. It is strong, and wide. It is steady, it is wet. It looks as strong as the trunk does. It looks like a raft on the ocean of fog.

He walks to the branch and stands under it. He jumps and grabs, wraps his arms around its thick. His hand shakes, the black syrup escapes in fervent spurts from the gash on his crooked finger. He pulls and shakes. His back quavers as he kicks up his legs and steps up the tree trunk as he hangs by his arms from the wet branch. He loses his grip and falls, and then there is a dull thump?and a splash. Snow explodes into slush that waves across the yellow glisten. He is on his back. He opens his mouth, he tightens his forehead, he closes his mouth, and he clenches his chin and lips. His eyes are bold, black and yellow. Above him is the branch and below him is a new patch of wet dead grass.

He jumps up to his feet. He stares at the branch and he jumps and grabs it again. He pulls, he shakes, he squints and then opens wide his eyes. The black on his cheek shrinks. He strains and manages to lift his crooked, dirty, wet legs. They reach. His tremors shake the whole tree. He hugs the branch with his arms and legs. His face is pressed to the underside of the branch.

He pulls and his teeth grind together. He tries to twist. He writhes his way on top of the branch, and then he stops. He is still, his stomach and chest and legs are on top of the branch. He rests his chin on it. He heaves slow breaths. He rests, and he limbers his clenched face. He looks at the black patches in the yellow wet snow. He sees the sentence he has written in the snow.

He smirks. He turns slowly onto his back until his legs dangle one on each side and the back of his head rests on the branch. He looks up at the branches above him.

He sees the fogs carved by the branches. And the fog eddies dance for the moon that is absent.
He turns onto his stomach. He presses his face into the branch. His hands move to his waist. His fingers, wet with black syrup, undo his belt. He smiles a half smile, one side loose to curve and the other side stilled by the weight of his head pressed into the branch.

He pulls the belt out of the loops. It hangs in his arms. He runs it under the branch and in a figure eight he runs the other loop around his neck. Then he throws himself into a spasm, he jerks and his body falls off the tree. …

Behind the fog, the moon is shadowed in burnt orange, and then it is morning, and the sun breaks through fog and clouds and sees the man’s pointed feet as they hang over the colors of the cold wet dead grass.