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Show % A Night of Ice Fog It does not help to know that moon and stars exist; we find the trail's beginning with impressions below sight, centering our passage by slip and grope and plunge through unpacked margins between maple ghosts. The cabin has not left the hill, but the earth seems skewed underlying a trail that feels mistaken, as if north decided on a whim to be east and the mountain drifted 'round, windless on ocean memory below a mile of stone. We breast the final steep, the cabin is black and quiet as a bear's dream. The door opens with a faint creak on clear, cold air that does not sting. I flick a match, light the lamp, the room forms in amber; we close the door, hide ourselves in light from the void's insistence. |