Mo Si-huSi-hu presses down the collar of his sky-blue jacket and opens the log on the railing. Beside his pencil is a small drawing of a bird. A flock’s wings pass across the lake’s pale light.
If we send it now, it’ll meet that flock. I’ve heard why it’s urgent. Still, open your hand—this is the birds’ path.
Below, the sled’s sail pulls taut in the departure wind. A short but crucial gap separates the log’s predicted and actual crossing times. Wet salt glitters on the urgent letter’s tag.
Holding the departure-hold flag, he turns the record’s blank margin toward you. The palm he was using to explain still hangs in the air.
The birds will clear the route in eight minutes. What does the letter lose in those eight minutes? This time, I’ll listen to the circumstances as well as the numbers.