and my steps left a ticket punch trail in the grass frost. I dreamed of wrecks and adventures, abandoned cabins to shore up, get a fire going to snub the darkness, post a watch to peer out into the wind and canyon approaches, waiting for rescue, knowing it never comes. And I’m busy with books, drawing up lists and sketches, conjuring words until they ring true. Planning the months, Pollock shuffling in the shadows, expectant or without a care, Lecce glaring, Roerich and his Himalayan violet cloudscapes, all that cold space to wander and gape at. And the ice patterns in from the edges, so slow you barely notice, weaving its white on the meadow flood, the car screen, the grips of my bike. The ice comes to life as the fire splutters and I worry about Riverman and the tossed barges and his tiny stove set on bricks, his mittened hands snapping twigs and driftwood splits to shape, laying them carefully into the crackle.
