Who needs the song and dance of Spring - all that green and juice and ruckus - when you can have this? The landscape retracted to its starched bones. No lust. Not yet. No panic to seed and be sown, which is a hankering after self-duplication in hypothetical elsewheres. Just the bare, muted now. The enough of now. No God. No priest. No shrink. No one to pay heed to the scurry and the hide-and-seek of my thoughts, but me. No one to be responsible for them, but me. No one to care for them, unconditionally - if I have the balls to do that, but me. No one to call them home, but me.
All the ponds wear blind-man's lenses of ice.
Lapwings idle west.