hash rubs the black holes of his eyes with his palms then looks again at the radio and then up to the arrow on the glass bowl compass pointing to land . i lay face-first in a pile of snow that had collected from the last storm . there is a man walking up and down the street with a huge set of fancy balloons attached to his tan leather belt and if he is not careful that occasional gust of wind might just pick up and do the same to him by making him , actually float off the ground . 