It would be like snow, if I had known snow as a child. That difference winter owed entirely to an imagined geography, a history of wandering towards a point. That feeling of the air as it changes states. The dull beauty of that next to nearness, that seething stillness, that blunted bloom. Somehow turning out just as the weather changes. Somehow something that is slow and gentle.
It feels like some bell or beacon, an itching almost reaching the skin, a touch that is cumbersome and beloved. Waking up at the border of the day, bewildered and in love. That velvet certainty that change is always there so reassuring. That that flat footed ink would always get everything wrong, enraptured by the details. The insistent punctuation, stippling the rhythm of breath. A ringing of some needed call.
The doorframe is slathered with the dust of rain, that whisper caught just so. I breathed, feeling the momentary brightening that accompanies the weighing of the storm. I watched, the rain changing its shape, spare and reluctant to fall down. I stretch, bulk and spine grinding out a drum-line. A chill appears, deadpan and sudden. There is that drift, a blindness of livid white. The idea of something, as if there were time enough.