still winter

sometimes, the windows are bright rectangles leading out of the dark room, giving visions lancing into the distance of trees, houses, birds, skies. in a moment, though, the squall blows through, and the hole becomes a soft white blanket shifting furiously in the wind.

it's still winter, i remind myself. the disorientation of the seasonal time shift hasn't slipped from my grasp yet; i easily lose track of how long i can wait before the sun sets. it's still winter, because the floors are so cold i almost cannot bear to stand. it's still winter, even as buds push desperately for an ever-clearing sky.

the clouds part again, and the sunlight smashes into the earth. i can pick out birds nests and dog crap and upended lawn furniture. but it's still winter.

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13 March 2018 21:59

snow

i didn't realize that we'd been blanketed by snow until the sun woke me by lancing brilliantly through the eaves towards my head, energized by the reflection off streets, trees, roofs. and even then, i blinked through the glare and didn't understand why the rectangle was bright, why i couldn't see the scraggly limbs across the way, why the colors were warm instead of dingy.

it was quiet. i couldn't hear tires struggling to produce traction, or plows scraping the ice, or the drips of slipping snowbanks. i couldn't hear the confused birdsong, the urgent gusts.

on days like this, i cannot bear to be the first to break the silence.

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12 February 2018 23:09

heavy fog

at just past noon, not enough light slips through the fog to get to my windows; i mistake it for dusk. i can hear the past few days of snowpack sliding down the gutters, along the channels i cut towards the drains so we wouldn't be flooded out.

hours later, when i'm returning from errands, i pass through a slight dip in the road. the fog pools there, swept through the trees and rows of houses. it clogs my eyes and nose, smelling like confusion. crows pass overhead, the beating of their wings stirring the air; i hear and feel them more than anything else. i trip over mud i didn't see.

i don't understand this weather. this weather is real.

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11 February 2018 19:55

bike greetings

some people frown at me when they see me on my bicycle. sometimes, it's their response to imagining themselves on a bicycle. 'can't you walk to work instead? what about the bus?'

sometimes it's a frustration that i'm in their way, that my presence forces them to be more careful, that they're worried something bad might happen to me and they have to see it.

but sometimes, i'll pass someone who looks at me and grins through their scarf. sometimes, i pass the old security guard who's been keeping an eye out for me since i was a teenager, and raise a hand in greeting. 'hey! you're making me look bad,' he protests.

'you can be out here with me, too,' i shout back, and his reply is blown away by the wind as i slide around the corner.

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07 February 2018 15:23

moonrise

some days, the sun seems to set inconceivably fast, and a pale moon sprouts in the sky as if it sprouted from a tree and escaped into orbit. the light glows harshly for a few moments, then fades as the sun struggles to light through slanted layers of atmosphere. we've filled the air with things that clog the sun's breath.

the moon strengthens as it climbs, brightens as the sun rolls into the distance. the city sounds different at night, when the sun can no longer see what is happening. i rarely hear distant cars the way they sound at dusk, when tendrils of pink slide further and further into the distant river valley.

i am always surprised at how quickly it grows cold in the winter.

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28 January 2018 20:50