Cold air, the lightness of a chickadee landing on my wrist as I filled the feeder, fire warm, coffee dark, cat winding around my feet earlier as I got out of bed, dizzy from too few hours but excited at the arrival, after midnight, of Angie and Karna, a flurry of texts from ferry, from the long highway (“Just by Trout Lake.” “Foggy.”), blue sky, the scent of coming snow. Stitch, sew the rivers you saw from the plane as you approached Edmonton, stitch the red lines to keep you safe.
Sweet lute, Ronn McFarlane playing 17th c. airs from the Wemyss manuscript, the simple elegant notes just right in the morning light, though not the one I am longing for as the old year approaches its welcome end, not “Lady Lie Near Me”, the one I was thinking of last night as I waited for their headlights to appear on our dark driveway.
Take out the old. Take out the recycling boxes and fill the trunk. Take out the ashes of the fires, the news of the virus on every page, the empty bags. And while you’re out in the cold morning, deliver these to friends.