I am full of doubt. The hawk sitting in the middle of a frozen field, a red lump in white flat.
In a microfiche machine wrapped in wood paneling, the archive flips by.
The click of it bounces off the white cracked tile, the buttered leather of the chair.
In the archive an avalanche is permanently sliding, angled, into a ski lodge.
In the archive stiff and white snakes float. I cup my hands together. Pines distend the vectored sheet.