Walking home on ice and compacted snow I want to say I crunched. My steps crunched. But I listen to the sound. Over and over the sound of a step. There is not a crunch. At least not every time. The sound is more voip-voip-voip. At first I think I hear woip-woip-woip. No. The beginning of the sound is more like the biting of my lower lip. A “wu” sound is like a kiss. “Vu” is a bite.
The heel hitting ground is harsh reality “Vu”. The toe lifting away is hopeful, fanciful “oip”. “Oip” is an accident. 10,000 accidents an hour. The bite is intended. The bite is direction. The accident is a dream. A defiance. The bite acceptance.