Reflected back in the camera lens is the daughter
peering into it. Meanwhile she listens to the
mother’s rumors about villagers wearing the same
clothes, until the white cloth turned black, until
the dark snow whitened again.

The daughter watches her shave down the stool
legs—one at a time—with a hand saw but it
remains wobbly.

Her rumors continue: “Your grandfather ate so
little, resorting to grass. His skin turned onion
yellow.”

And there tomorrow is, insisting on a single
silhouette of yesterday. For right now she and the
daughter see one set of prints, as if they have
been retracing their steps, walking backwards in
the snow.