away from the lens

Sitting up here in the tree house, I like to watch the mean squirrels skitter about and the occasional cardinal or blue jay perch briefly outside my window, the yellow leaves a nice frame for the bay. I love this season but dread the onslaught for which it is the prelude. On the bike to New Glarus I could smell death. It is the dry, brittle smell of winter and I am torn between breathing it in, welcoming and accepting it, and wishing I was a Jewish octogenarian snow bird making my way to Florida in my Winnebago.

I wrote a poem about winter back when I was in high school, over 10 years ago. I wish I had kept better track of it, but I am terrible about saving such things for posterity. They were so private and too embarrassing so it would be better if those creations were to evaporate into the ether, leaving no trace.

My ability to hang on has improved since then.