Lately, the trees fall down and don’t get up. A graveyard of twigs and leaves still cover the ground from the October nor’easter that whacked our town on its way to the North Pole, which is lovely this time of year.
Polar bears slip and slide on icebergs in the frosty wilderness and take holiday on the south side of the Pole.
They can see Russia from their lounge chairs and enjoy watching movies about humans succumbing to suburban pratfalls in the dark. In the suburban wilderness, lights don’t shine at night and lead folks to their doors. Instead, they trip into black holes and fall into morning.
At 5:30 a.m., the alarm clock rocks the room, as orange slits of light impales the eyes.
Thud, thud, thud is the sound in my head or is it on the access road – kids playing basketball or an idea knocking in my brain. An enormous fruitful idea that I need to squeeze out my ears unless they’re clogged. Then, the ideas flow from the pen I left on the nightstand. Words scrawled in the dark I hope I can read and don’t disappoint me.
After Jim stumbles out of bed into the bathroom for a session of shower shock therapy, the dog migrates to his side and settles on the folds of the comforter left warm from the respite of a night of sleep.
In the country, a surreal air of weightlessness breathes when I breathe. I follow it down the street where sightless sky converges with faux road, that winds uphill past speckled lights in the picture windowed homes.