Winter

Up the street, the hidden porch light of a house is illuminating the bare twigs of an oak, making them seem like a puff of smoke in the rainy night.

The branches of the ponderosas droop heavily with the rain.

Now that the apple trees in the orchard have lost most of their leaves, I can see the lights of a house on the next street.

One of the cats is on the back porch, watching the night. The other is curled sleeping behind my chair.

I hear the water dripping from the eaves and the low rumble of air in the ductwork.

There will be things to do today.

I take refuge in the commonplace and in the things of the world.

Now, I am wondering how long my denial of impending disaster can be sustained.