I breathe in arm chill through my nose. The days are growing colder but I warm my mornings with pizza blisters. A small child crosses a sidewalk in cow spots. He does not know the taste of garlic salt and cinnamon because I am afraid to offer him pizza. His mother gets ready to blow a rape whistle as soon as I open my mouth. I understand her fear. I have tucked my arm chill into a cardigan sweater made of barn oats and bluejay feathers.