sweep

The stars blur out of focus, a slow adjustment between distances. Clouds drift along the skin of the sky, the weather chained to the bottom of the ocean. These cold sunken hours. The deep forgiving oblivion of the restless tide. Sleep a haunting and a hush, a slipped beating of wings against the window, the shyness of a ghost always just outside the door.

The television spits a dull blue hue, the reflected ripple of light rushing across the water. The room the drowned shine of the surface of a pond at dawn. I am restless in the cold press of this empty waking, the dull riddle of being discovered again. I gather the blankets around my shoulders, breathing a little uneasy. I watch how far the world has sailed. I watch the way the world disappears over the horizon.

The sky is gray, the pavement shining. The wind is slipping along every surface, and all the leaves have fallen to the ground. The gutter is clotted with this shed skin of the season. I turn all the locks and close up the windows. I wander through the house, dowsing every light. I will find my bed and get to dreaming. The sweep of winter across the drift of dreams.