Thursday, March 01, 2012
Inside Looking Out
Across the pond something flaps like a huge bird trapped in winter branches, but it's plastic though why there in the cold bare trees far from any house. Perhaps it covers a stack of wood or a snow mobile, silent this nearly snow-less winter. The sienna field shimmers in a haze of white, as if swiped with a chalk pastel, creating a text no one can translate. Wind tears at the cedar beside the house. The branches bow and shiver, rap a haunting beat, frighten away the birds who sheltered there only yesterday.
The wind seeps through the walls of the house. The rooms are cold, but at four the sun adds a faint warmth to the woman who sits by the window and runs her fingers over the cat's forehead. The cat taps his paw on the woman's right hand, but she strokes with the left, holds her tea cup with the right, her spirit trapped in a cage of aging ribs that move up and down with her shallow breath.