Category: Writing

One snowflake, then another, floats down like the last leaf from a tree. A long pause, a third – eventually a fourth. There’s a shyness in beginnings, unsure of where to start or how. The way we might look at each other after a long absence, a near remembering of how this goes.

Through the screen door I hear the heat pump hum. In the distance, a single crow caws her four-crow beat. There are clouds, lots of clouds… and the day is already layered in mottled and flannel grays. The dog, tangled around a deck post, whines to come in. Yes, this is November.   

The morning rain falls heavier than a pitter patter. The outside colors washed over in gunmetal suggest a second cup of coffee and the dim glow of a table lamp. The day says curl up, sit a while, listen as the storm churns through. The dog buries his nose in a blanket.

This spiral staircase only goes down – a candle dark labyrinth tucked away from the light and the morning blue. There’s a lot of talking. It’s mostly my voice that I hear. I make several cases – mentally game planning a series of conversations. Winding my way down, moments pass, sun-kissed walks go unnoticed.

The morning minutes slip. I watch the sunlight creep across the frosted lawn. There’s traffic on the main road, fast, not heavy. The autumn trees stretch varicose and naked – so thin. Only the pines stand like bushy sentinels in this arctic blue. It’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time.

On election night, the sports bar with dozens of TVs plays Fox News. The sun sets early. The bar is darker than usual. Two guys nearby (truckers) say things were good under the former guy – he was a good businessman. They say he’s an asshole but that’s what gets the job done.

With his imperfect understanding of time, the dog doesn’t know we “fell back” an hour. He knows his belly’s hunger. His animal heart and mind like to keep things simple. In this, he is also like a machine – though clearly not a watch. With his whines, I too know his belly’s hunger.

A warm front settles in like feet up on the furniture relaxed. This could be early spring. A squirrel hops through grass that’s started to grow again – trickster weather and nature fooled. We’ll switch back soon enough, cold air hitting with the force of a car accident. Everything stopped short and bracing.

Dark clouds heavy like mountains hurry north and west across the morning sky. They flow the way a river might after strong rains: purposefully swollen with places to go. These could be the large ships from Star Wars, or icebergs – faster than lumbering and thick with intent.  I wonder where they’re going.

Under a three-quarter moon, paper white, a soft wind blows. This isn’t a city and I wish it were. Give me Philly. Give me Memphis. Give me something with a heartbeat more recognizable than this. The moon is right but the streets feel wrong. There’s something off in this thrum and gallop.

Panic. The rusty, steel cable snaps at the bend when the dog pulls. He’s barking at the dogs next door unaware of his momentary freedom.  Spring down the steps, grab the snapped tether, reel him in. I’m sure the sun was rising, and the sky was painterly. It might have been chilly.