Hibernation

Yesterday afternoon the sun fell in long angles down the length of the park. Approaching on Kingsmill Avenue, I looked between the last two gateway houses at the dim bank of trees. Just then two joggers went running along the bicycle path. They were radiant, golden, crossing a dark screen. When I joined the trail and turned toward the sun, all the millions of twigs were laced with light as if already ice-bound.

It fell down the river like an angel. Immolation. The water is lying low and a flock of Canada geese stood roosting in the middle of the stream, their single feet in mud. They appeared as a line of flares on dark reflections, soft breast feathers blending into a dream of forgetfulness. Pulling up their feet and edging away as one, they uttered a muted piping, barely audible from where I stood on the shadowy bank.

Most of the leaves had fallen, except from the buckthorns, which are still green. A dense row of them stood along the far shore. One upper branch thrashed mysteriously: a grey squirrel looking for berries.

Soon all this light, liquid and mild air will be beaten, packed down, pressed, stored away. I will not walk breathing deeply, but with my mouth wrapped behind a scarf.

I went to bed around 2:30 but couldn't get to sleep. There was nothing on my mind; I just felt an edge of restlessness that couldn't be denied. Rising again, I went into the dark hall and stood by the window, looking through the bath of light in the car lot below. All the coloured bodies were washed with glittering white. The temperature had plummeted below freezing in the night. Now the last vestiges of bright colour will die away quickly.

With a mug of warm milk, I played Parcheesi and Solitaire until I felt sleepy.

This morning it is raining again. Dark cars are backed up all the way from Victoria Road on the shining street. Then their brake lights blink off and they nudge forward once more.

I am caught in the window between falling and sleeping. The bright fluorescent tubes stand behind my monitor, washing my dim office in wakeful white. The sky pulls like a shroud around the windows. This upholstered chair hugs my shoulders, buttocks and thighs. It is comforting.

Days open ahead, one by one. The words keep coming, the story unfolds. The years unloose their secrets. Now is the time for unravelling memories in a still corner of the dark.

( black willows )