Dear Margaret,
The coyotes walked the porch last night and my hands are anxious. Three nights and at dusk, the yard darkens, the room darkens. Small animals move along the baseboards, howling and mewling in tandem with my heart. Two loggers were lost today, and I mourn according to the condition I find myself in. The lawn is a strange artifact. I dress in black. Make plans to go south in the winter. Still a white powder coats the window sills. I dreamt my hands held a bundle coddled and clotted. I passed the sugar, passed the salt. Am ever fluent in distraction. From the bed, hope looks like a shadow moving along the wall.
C
