Category: Writing

The dog tears the left antler off the reindeer. A torn seam, a weakness, a type of breach. Animal instinct says find the soft spot – pull everything out. The other antler came next. A hole in the head and soon the plush is gutted. Batting strewn across the floor. A Christmas massacre.

Freeway traffic rivers quickly towards the city. Cars speed and break, swerve and break, ride close and break. I circle the block not sure if I can fit in that spot or that one. I used to do this every day. Out of practice, I’ve lost my sea legs. I’m less self-assured.

Winter cold, rain, and slush. My race is against the coming freeze. I need to get over the mountain. I have maybe an hour. Before every bridge, a sign I used to ignore: bridge ices before road. I tense a little. I anticipate the slip. At every curve I expect a slide.

I watch the snow. I watch the snow and think. It seems… without metaphor or simile. It falls. It drifts. It piles up. It blankets. Mostly without comparison to much else – other than more snow. The snow looks soft and feathery like a new down comforter – of snow… but not much else.

Today, Wednesday, is the winter solstice – the shortest day. The sky burns red in the morning and I’m thinking an apex can also be a middle. On our march towards the equinox, we’re halfway there – keep going, or is it turn around? Did we reverse course? Either way, our light grows longer.

Newly crumpled into a ball, the receipt crackles as it loosens and settles on the table. I don’t need to get up to throw it away – not right now. But that is where my mind jumps. Untamed, it does anything to dodge the difficult tasks of thinking and writing – concentrating and enduring.    

White snow, slate sky, red shed with black roof. This could be a Christmas card. Maybe paint a cardinal in the leafless shrub, and a wreath on the neighbor’s door. When I see those cards, I don’t wonder if it’s cold in that winter town, or if ice lurks under the snow.

On the side of the country road, golden light soaks the stubbled fields where summer’s corn grew tall. Red barns and silver silos stand in the distance.  Telephone lines and guard rails and double yellow lines fly by. The road ahead rises to meet the tires then recedes in the rear view.

I bundle up and dress near the edge of the bed – thermal top, winter hat. I feel old and slow – deliberate like a woodsman about to head out for the day – though less certain in the sharpness of my axe. I’m only walking the dog. The world outside is just as cold.

Yesterday’s sleet is a heavy slush beneath an equally heavy inch or two of snow. The forecast called for rain towards the end. I had hoped the rain would wash some of this away – never came.  A single crow in a tall pine mocks me. Progress is slow. Yesterday weighs a ton.

Sleet tic tacs off the deck, the table, the windowpane. The approaching winter storm unleashes the law firm of my primal desires: hunker down, hoard, and gorge. I want a second breakfast – then some soup and hearty bread. Let’s have a drink. Let’s slouch our way through this. Let’s wait it out.