The warmth of the juncture: his furred back against my leg. By minutes the days are beginning to lengthen. Last week, he had two surgeries in two days. The house grew cold and colder. The curtains remained closed against the faint light, the overcast sky. When I opened the door this morning, sunstruck fog, and in the maple, small birds chirping, chirruping delight? discontent? In the winter tree I could see them, restless, pounce from branch to branch, spurred to movement, spurred to voice. The day would be short, and they would have all of it.
Read more from Issue No. 24 or share on Facebook and Twitter.