In February when the nights are black with ice and I want nothing more than sleep, my brain and heart conspire against me. I feel the way my face sets in the dark, and I know I look like my father. I wonder if he hears footsteps in his sleep. I think of the misguided flight of cardinals, a grave scooped into a pile of cinders. I think of house fires and warm baths, and the weight of a child in a fireman’s arms. I wonder at the things we don’t even know to be afraid of. That strange bend beyond our nightly sleep, how the world picks up speed and blurs the edge of dreams. Brent Fisk is a writer from Bowling Green, Kentucky with forthcoming work in Gravel, and Forge. He will begin work on his MFA this fall.