by Christopher Kennedy
It’s not the tedium of cold rain or the cliché of its presence. It’s not the atmospheric conditions or the confluence of lakes when the glaciers moved through here eons ago, the slow, reticulating gesture of nature, mindless creator and destroyer. It’s the certainty of mood, the gray of the interior life reflecting the sky, that render me here, like a snapshot of myself, a still image in the chiaroscuro wash where I float like a cloud of steam, amorphously, the air around me winter-midnight cold, and I’m amazed at the notion of my own consciousness and distill into the gradually warming air as the winter-heavy sun starts to filter down its silver light where a few tall pines still feather the hills.