Last Square of Light

I always forget how short the days are in this part of the year, when I catch the last of the light slipping past the ridge at the edge of town, my sweater pulled over the white of my knuckles as Red Bike pilots itself down familiar streets, alleyways. In the shower my roadmap of veins and capillaries and other blue-blood movers glow against the white of my legs that stay hidden all day. In the mornings I wake under fleece and wool and feathers to dreams of cartires, Olive.

It’s been a long December, Sarah and I agreed this afternoon. The sky here is quiet and grey and in all directions the living are going on living and my loved ones are thriving, hurting, eating, dancing, sleeping, filling with slow sadness, overflowing with love and luck. I am thinking this week especially of the big eyed dog who needs this (“I need this.”) and the strength of her dog-mother, and of Hurricane Ben‘s pal, the great writer and artist Tim Kreider, who lost his longtime feline companion recently.

Hurricane Ben forwards this tribute from Tim’s website.


qat qollage


Love to you all, hugs if you should want for them.


About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
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