Late Winter

Rain today, and snow up higher. Varied thrushes singing from the old hemlocks. Startled two deer going into the woods, footprints in the mud showing their haste.

Then home – a door, a step, a light, and warmth – as if the house itself has been keeping for me.

Bucking up fallen logs across the road, my breath steams in front of me, as my clothes steam in the cold, as the saw steams as Jay melts it through red rotted Doug Fir.

Home, and curry powder on my potatoes, meat, onions. Sweet-spicy smell of my hearth.

Giving my thanks the best I can, bow drawn slowly across strings, I compose a
thrush-song on the fiddle. <>