The days are short in mid December.
You have to chase light, what little
of it is left to catch.
But without sun there is drama,
a pull to water and
the frosted tips of dead-still trees and bent, frozen grasses.
At first glance, you think, there’s so much emptiness here.
As if colorless is akin to
depression, a voided wasteland.
There is noise, daily noise not far away on a
highway of commuters.
There are voles, scurrying under snow mounds, trying to
punch out a living here.
Moose tracks. Your dog in a perpetual zig-zag of
Hoar frost. Old wooden beams. Steel.
You wait for the thunder of a train to rummage steel tracks over the
But your fingers and toes won’t wait long; the hairs in your nose
Despite first impressions, there is life in cold places.