January 2017

The last trace of snow has gone again. The sky is blank. What kind of January is this? Trees rock back and forth like traumatized refugees.

‪The black-and-white simplicity of a fairy-tale snow that clings to every dark twig: a fragile magic that never lasts beyond eleven o’clock.‬

‪The clouds that settled in yesterday haven’t lifted, their slow drift barely perceptible through the shifting clarity of the trees.‬

Two ravens hang high against the clouds without flapping a wing. Two more appear and attack, croaking, and all four soar off to the north.