I walk when it is still dark. The wind comes up behind me on its way to the sea. It only seems like the owl is far away.
And the dog is a blur in darkness. And the brook sounds happy, as I am, against such crazy odds. Is that a star in the crabapple tree?
Where the hill crests, snow begins. The neighbor's lights come on and an eighteen wheeler grinds along 112. For now I am here.
For now I am writing. Chrisoula makes tea and we drink it together and later fall asleep, sharing a pillow. Bodies are nice - it's okay to say that.
Though earlier - days earlier - a cardinal watched me from inside an icy thicket - deeper in the forest than one usually sees them - and I wondered. Hawks hunt the chickens and so the chickens pay attention. A sliver of moon fallen on the road disappears into my pocket.
And the wind nestles through holes in my jacket. How relieved are the poor when they reach God's table! I laugh a little walking, thinking on what I have valued.
What a gold light follows you, saying I can rest at last! For reading Dickinson while you knit is finer than hot kisses.