We are under a blue-grey winter fog. The world is busily preparing for the momentary Thanksgiving pause before the rush of the rest of the year toward January’s stagnation. These are the accelerated winter months.
Plywood buildings are delayed, mud freezes, lights glow with diffuse aurae in the moist air of our long darkness. From every human endeavor steam rises to join the overhanging winterfog. Withered leaves still held by the green-grey trees rustle from time to time.
In my apartment I hear the noise of rushing water, then silence, then the sounds of distant traffic, and finally the ticking at the baseboards–unlike the footsteps of doom. The pen, however, scratches busily.