Three Heartbeats and a Hill of Bones

In last night's dream, I walked through an unfamiliar village. Coming upon small groups of newborn elephants bound together, I saw their eyes had turned white from abuse. The barely conscious babies were kept alive to ensure freshness. I wept as I climbed a hill rising high above the village. At the top, a freshly painted sign read: Hill of Bones.

A regressing moon shimmers through the east facing window and begs blue respectfully upon my books and nightstand and pillow. It's not hard to love January nights when they give like this. But dawn does come, not brightly, not refreshingly, it just comes. Feed the dog. Cook oatmeal and make coffee. Prep the fireplace for a slow burn. Today will be a just-here kind of day.

Yesterday, driving home, the sun was setting in my eyes around 5:15, which means the days are slightly gaining length in a way that puts a flutter in my stomach. Halfway hope meets halfway here. The greenhouse work should start any day, and so too the reclamation of my body adrift. I'm not sure how else to do it.

In the moment before the snow begins, before I even know it's that moment, I am struck by the stillness of the pine branches and the absence of birds at the feeder and the roofs dressed in uninterrupted white. No cloud rushes by. No squirrel dances along the picketed privacy fence. No wind tips resting snow off oak and maple branches. Then, as if a dream, a light confetti begins to catch my eye. With a slight breeze pushing weightless snow left to right, it takes no more than 3 heartbeats to become everything I can see. It is this, this unexpected hitch in the way I inhale, which causes me to know exactly who I am. And I don't need faith anymore because I know who you are, too.