Waiting for the Rain
The sky in the north is often a heavy, wet wool. We carry protection against it, a habit of folding ourselves away when the clouds break. There is a peculiar patience in an object that waits for a storm. It sits in the corner, leaning against…
The Weight of Perspective
If we could see the world as the birds do, would our grievances still hold their shape? We spend our lives walking through the narrow corridors of our own making, convinced that the walls we touch are the boundaries of the universe. We measure…
The Breath of Winter
The air tonight tastes of wet iron and damp wool. It is a heavy, clinging cold that settles deep into the marrow, the kind that makes your skin prickle with the sudden awareness of its own surface. I remember standing on a pier once, when the…