February.
Deep heart of winter.
Lake finally freezes over. I step on the ice, holding my skates. The ice grumbles restlessly beneath me. It is alive. Out a bit farther I see a large hole marked with caution tape. Footprints in the light skim of snow lead up to it. I immediately make up a story: Someone fell in! That is what it looks like and it is enough to keep me off the ice. It’s not ready yet. Or, as we used to say on Mackinac Island: the ice hasn’t made yet.
As if someone was baking it.
Firewood. So much firewood. But is is enough? I eye the dwindling pile. The truth of a log house: either sweating or freezing, no in between.
The hum of the aquarium, so much like camping by a river.
The mountains, impervious and indifferent. Avalanche warning.
I dream up stories and they simmer for months.
Time is going too fast.