Roots tangle. Roots tangle in a glass vase. Roots tangle in a glass vase full of water. Sprouting from cut stems, roots tangle and brown in a glass vase full of water. Sprouting from cut stems beneath the Philodendron, roots tangle and brown in a glass vase full of water. Roots tangle.

Friends say hi with a quick “go birds.” Pass, run, score, kick, and sack. They won and my feed is green. Pics from Broad Street show it’s packed. I hear the poles are greased.  Big game in two weeks, I’m sure I’ll watch. Next time, I’ll write with more than one syllable.

Ice melts in the silver spun afternoon of a warming day. The dog rests his chin on the sofa. He looks out the window like a child with a broken leg watching her friends shriek and play run-around games in early spring. It’s January and this won’t last. So few things do.

Full of giddy up and gallop, the dog noses through last night’s dusting of snow. The road beneath is slick. His sudden pull and my lack of purchase send my thoughts sliding towards catastrophe or at least cartoonish visions of minor embarrassments and slapstick calamities.  A cautious penguin walks a playful horse.   

The blacktop shines and glistens like glass or polished coal – maybe ice. This street dark mirror reflects streetlight and stoplight and headlight glow, yet still black and deep as an abyss. The parking lot of the Panda Express is full. Cars shuffle in and out. “Martha My Dear” plays on the stereo.

Wood smoke scents the morning air. Someone is up early with the fire going. I breath deeply as if unlocking a memory primeval and pleasant. The day is stitched together with anticipation, a winter storm moving in (or maybe not). I want to get things in order, nest, maybe light a fire.

I can never make out Orion, but I recognize his belt. I’m not sure if the dipper is big or little. Somewhere there’s a W for Cassiopeia, and I know the dipper’s handle will arc towards Arcturus.  In the crisp winter air, memories of college astronomy float back to me like stardust.

Fresh snow half-squeaks, half-crunches underfoot. There ought to be a word for that creaking snowy sound. It’s that type of snow, pillowy looking but dense. Good snowball making snow.  This morning, it sticks to everything: every branch and every branch of a branch. The rest of the world feels dampened but bright.