I suppose when spring comes I'll miss all the warm nights huddled around tables; there won't be nobody to plunk on a piano or guitar to lure people away from their conversations as they focus on a separate harmony, or a doubling up on the melody. I'll miss nice girls hosting with eats and unceasing warm wine. I'll long for reading F.Scott Fitzgerald to each other and staring out the window side by side, wistfully, at what could be, and what is going on: construction, an ambulance, nothing at all...
Gone will be my winter nights of cutting through the park, homeward, crosswise, and upon reaching the middle, being brave enough to throw my hood back and soak in the stark landscape as it romances me with fresh snow.
My peripheral vision is a luxury in the cold dead of the season. A small window surrounded by coyote fur is usually all I can afford. Sometimes the wind is so icy and burns my skin so that I hate it, I hate it, but I stand straight, I don't care and I think, God, I love it.
Who's with me?
4 comments:
Uhm. I LOVE this photo.
That last sentence is exactly how I feel about Canadian winter. Well said.
Count me in.
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