Wednesday, March 2, 2016

March 2: The gloaming


Last night, instead of my regular walk through the park, I walked home through the subdivision; it's a longer walk and you trade a sweeping harbour vista for glimpses of the local lakes, but it's not bad. The last time I walked that way the sidewalks were sheets of burnished ice, gleaming under the streetlights, but almost all our snow is gone now and yesterday the sidewalks were all clear. The sun was on its downward swing, and the light was long and low and golden. It seemed like everyone I passed was smiling.

When I got home, the view out the back door was of tree branches outlined in black against the watery blue sky, like an intricate paper cutting. A murmuration of starlings. A lone crow, headed home. I watched as the colour on the horizon changed from apricot to pale yellow, and caught the briefest flash of green just before the sun disappeared. 

Tonight, I caught a ride home with a colleague. We scuttled across the parking lot with our hoods up, dancing around puddles; the highway was a blur of rain spatter and brake lights. Everything seemed grey.

At home again, waiting for the kettle to boil, looking out the back door, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the set dressers misread the memo and decorated for Halloween instead of early spring. It's a dirty black night, rain rushing sideways, fog illuminated orange by the sulphur streetlights; the wind is howling. Off in the distance, the freight train sounds its warning. Time to retire with tea and knitting, I think. 

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