In the many days of silence, perfect words flit like restless thoughts through axons and dendrites. Like elusive spices in a creamy sauce and silk fluttering against the ankle in an inexplicable draft. Shades of black on black on blue in a moonlit night. Magpie feathers gliding on a winter breeze.

We fight against the gravity of small bodies. And leave the corners blank.


Winter arrived all in one shot yesterday . A load of snow and plunging temperatures. Out come the goose-down parka and the serious winter boots — the ones that tromp through snow drifts while you laugh at fools with just ankle boots.

I am delighted.

Delighted doesn’t quite capture it.

I am gleeful. Elated. Kid-on-Christmas-morning out of my mind.

I’ve driven on the roads that have yet to be cleared. I’ve had to be pushed onto the road by a stranger. I’ve had to forward-reverse-forward-upshift-reverse-forward on several occasions times. Getting anywhere takes that tiny bit longer that seems to make other people cranky. None of that touches this vibration of excitement. This is how all Decembers should be.

A nearly true story that may not have happened to me. Or anyone else.

We fell in love in the span of a bus ride . Twenty minutes from my stop to the transit center where we parted. We weren’t reading the same book or magazine; we didn’t happen to realize we had the same playlist on our iPods. He simply asked me if I liked public transportation. He had a short grey coat. Green sneakers. I don’t remember his dark eyes or that flicker of a smile around his words. I don’t remember that he squeezed my hand through my mittens in parting. And maybe he does this every day: falls in love with another woman, absorbs her heartbeat into his chaotic solo drumbreak. I don’t know. It never matters in these affairs. I’ll see him tomorrow or the next day or three weeks from Sunday. I’ll find the release on my vocal cords and give him an answer.

Coming home

The distance between home and home is 7,300 kilometres (give or take), and miles morph into minutes en route to hours per heartbeat. Chronology blurs and winds like the road at the top of a canyon during a rainstorm. Seconds cascade in silt-saturated rivulets over sandstone outcrops. Halfway has no meaning. Our breath takes its place in shape of lithology. We have raced across landscapes to arrive in this evening with grasshoppers scraping monumental sonatas.