15° F, feels like 5° F. Winter.
Gazing out the window with Haight: “How is it that the snow amplifies the silence…”
Fox, with its long bushy tail, glances right furtively, tip toes through the snow and disappears.
Finches flutter to the feeders, feed, then flit away. Seeds darken the fresh snow below.
A shovel scrapes a driveway down the street, scarring the silence of the morning. Plows awaken in the distance, cold steel to asphalt, teeth on tin foil.
Oil heat courses through the veins of the house, warming. (Families, less than 50 miles away in the boroughs, huddle to warm, thermostats turned down, working to make budget.) Continue reading “Running. Grounded by Stillness.”
