Ice upon the water.
My dog has cabin fever. For a long time he was getting two walks a day and then winter came and it dropped down to one walk a day and then the snow came and it dropped down to zero walks a day because how can you take a walk when snow is waist high? I couldn’t even park where we normally walk.
Yesterday was relatively mild and although it was spitting snow it was nothing to be concerned about. My boss let me go home early so I threw on snowboots, said a quick prayer to the winter gods and went to the Indian Lands. That place hops year round so I was hoping that enough fellow cabin fevered folks had trodden a path and so they did! It was deceptive. The path was hard and frozen and then all of a sudden you’d sink to your knees and remember how deep the snow was, exactly.
Poor Baxter kept forgetting that the snow was deep and he’d go off track and suddenly tip over. He’s not graceful at the best of times.
It’s been cold. The river (tidal) froze mid wave. I feel uncomfortable thinking about that — a sudden realization at just how big the world is brought home by the freezing of a wave, mid curl.
I finished Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man last weekend and it made me feel uncomfortable too. The language was lovely because it’s Joyce.
But the Christmas vacation was very far away: but one time it would come because the earth moved round always.
He gave them ear only for a time but he was happy only when he was far from them, beyond their call, alone or in the company of phantasmal comrades.
But I felt unsettled. I’m still happy. But unsettled. The new moon is under my skin or the dripping icicles are messing with my rhythm or the piled snow stripped away my comfort in stark white. I don’t know.