Small Stone, January 14 (ish)

Magnum walks different in his red blanket, like a kid with new shoes, stepping extra high to say, "Look at me!" Of course I do.

Small Stone, January 13

I was hoping for fluffy, Frosty the Snowman flakes, but what we've got is ice-powder, painted down between the bricks with a fierce wind-brush. Yesterday's puddles are today's miniature ice rinks for the few leaves and twigs that haven't already frozen to the sidewalk. In a single blast of wind, I feel the coffee cup in my hand go cold. I think of horses on mornings like this, of the warm spot between neck and mane, of the ice that clings to the sides of the bucket after I've chopped down through the middle, and the first thirsty sound the horses make when they drink what I've dug out for them. Last night I dreamt of a tack shop, of a floor to ceiling display of halters and gleaming leather bridles. Then you came and opened the door. You led me away.

Small Stones, January 12

I stroll through settings, breathe in backstory, long for lost characters. There is hardly a step of this city that hasn't been written.

Small Stone, January 11

I resolve to live in the moment. And then I laugh at myself, because, resolutions are concerned with future, not now. Now, in this moment, there is a cold metal gate latch, and a sherbert-colored sky, and this horse who likes me to scratch behind his left ear. Now is cold fingers and cold toes and a cold nose and a warm horse and a warm heart. Now is good.

Small Stone, January 10

The outlines of stores and churches
that have stayed the same shape
for at least the last eleven years
are muted this morning by fog,
like paint with too much water,
Grayed to look kind of like memory.

Headlights, brilliant bright,
slice the veil,
Catch reflective stripes and
bring the road to the surface,
So much easier to see than
all the things that are standing still.

Small Stone, January 9

You finger tap in rhythm with the pulse in my temple,
And your hum is the exact frequency of my migraine.
Child, do you really want to get rid of me?
At least you’ve got this teacher figured out
Down to the last Hot Tamale hiding place.
When I’m half a knot up from the end of my rope,
You catch my gaze and place your finger to your lips,
Then rest quiet hands on the table,
eyes sparkling even as you feign innocence.
I smile and climb back to the top of my rope.

Small Stone, January 8

January, more on top of things than I am, has repaired its air conditioning. Guess I should call the landlord, let him know he needs to fix the heat, but at the moment I'm content with hot coffee, thick socks, and a warm dog.