Sunday, January 2, 2011

4:30 a.m. Rain patters outside. Claire sleeps on patchwork next to my desk. A fly buzzes. I check the movie schedule, the Hildegard von Bingen film is playing in Great Barrington, if I can get the car maybe I'll go. Stomach growls. I download pictures. Nature crime scene photos - I had felt like a forensic photographer - of feathered & bloody mayhem at the conservation area don't come out well enough to post, they don't look like anything, though in person the narrative pattern on snow was very dramatic (beautiful even - or rather, as a painting or artistic photograph, violence once removed, might have been expressively, elementally beautiful) and bespoke chaos. Did a coyote take down a crow?

So peaceful up in the aerie at this quiet black hour. I feel restored to have the computer back, move my fingers along the keys, pause and think, cup chin in hand, see what comes to mind, images of you that I wish to capture, the sensation of your fingers grazing my back as you passed, imperceptible in the festive din but that I keenly felt and grasped.

Headed back to bed. Ticking clocks or no ticking clocks that invisibly bong each small hour on the wall as I lie alone on the narrow sofa under too warm a cover on the ebony cloaked veranda - yes, I suppose I am a light sleeper.

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