I hike
deep into the woods
off Pine Hill
and sit at the bluff’s edge.

I breathe in
while winter’s last geese
silent and folding
share the grey water.

I reach into my pocket
for a state quarter—
Illinois—and press the cold face
into my palm, waiting.

Waiting for a perfect moment
that doesn’t come,
a peace that never finds me,
street traffic whurring,

far, but not far enough.
A stranger with a hood
walks the path behind me—
and I hate

that I turn red.
chill touches my shoulder;
I don’t dress for the season
anymore, and my hand

falters—
the heart in my right palm
beats stubbornly
against the copper-nickel.

I exhale, then flip the coin
catch and slam
promising,
to obey
old ethos:

always leave
a little
to chance.