Vista 8

11/16/09 4:00pm

In winter, day and night get closer. They’re pushed together, seeking warmth. Down in the valley, street lights beam white, but the sky still glows pale, electric. It’s not yet night. Black tree branches, silhouetted on the fading canvas, look like skeletons of lovers embracing.

In winter, I hear clearly. Sounds cut through the crisp air. Up the hill, highway traffic rushes, swooshes, shakes the reeds of the wheat stalks. Its dull drone says hello. The stalks shiver. I shiver too.

Far out over the sky, tiny black birds whirl. They circle the city, trying to catch a wind gusting south. Their tiny beaks part and the sound is right there in my ear, the caw caw caw. That’s how crisp this air is.

Footsteps on my tree-house stairs. Her heart beats faster every step she takes. Warm breath meets the icy air. I hear this too, in winter.

There’s more to feel now that it’s here, the frozen months. My neck prickles, tiny icy pins. I pull my jacket tighter. The air backs off and moves to my cheeks. I feel them flush. I rub my face. Like a child, I turn away from the cold. Where next will you make me shiver?

Pointy branches. Frozen grass blades. Icicles, they’ll come. Words that cut through crisp air, direct and unavoidable. Dullness disappears with warmth.

I feel things in winter, a sharpness. Goosebumps under my big white blanket, a shiver not from cold. I trace my finger along the knots of a spine, blow a cold breeze to shake the limbs. Say hello.


And I’ll feel the pedal under my foot as I roll up the window to shut out the cold. Early morning, I’ll find a gust of wind heading east and drive toward the sun. I’ll absorb the highway noise as it echoes behind me, before me, all around me. I’ll find where the day and night grow close, and I’ll meet them halfway.