like a procession that winds back to its starting point, the sky at this time of year still slow to brighten. In front or behind you: the same dark, if not for the usual city lights. Store signs, windows in dormitories to which students won't return until it's clear there won't be any school closings. A rescue helicopter rushes to lift blood or an organ to someone on a surgery table. No snow in the valley, no drifts. Some ships patrol the harbors. Along a path where others walk, nothing brighter than the orange glow of a cigarette, the ice blue pings from a cell phone. But out west, out of season, sudden grass fires flare and spread. People pack up belongings and animals, wondering if this time they should go or stay.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.