Dark Gray, Pale Gray

Before the storm rolled in, my niece was skipping stones across the river. Running up and down the water’s edge, carrying flat gray rocks in her hands. Geese flying overhead, the water rushing below, flowing over the knees of men fly-fishing in the middle of the river. Poles whipping back and forth, translucent fishing lines landing silently on the rippling current. The bank’s soft dirt covered in my niece’s footprints.

Flocks of screeching birds scattered from the trees when a blast of winter air drove fast through the tangled bare limbs hovering over the river. The temperature dropping, rows of trees creaking all around us. Gusts of cold wind weaving through waves of fluttering bird wings. A storm gathering overhead. Dark clouds drifting in from the South and the East. Gray converging with gray. The walls of winter closing in once again. Hollow and colorless. Dark gray, pale gray. Ash gray, slate gray.

But winter is waning. I have to keep reminding myself of that. The days are growing longer. If I can pull my attention from the storms swelling on the horizon, if I can stop focusing on the gray clouds, I will see the sun stretching through the hours. Faint rays of light swathing faded yellow grass.

I think I’ll just close my eyes and listen to Seabear until winter is finished.



You’ll feel better in the morning.