At the Window

AT THE WINDOW She had cut her hair and wondered if he liked it “Not a problem” he said acutely aware of her perpetual pattern of cyclical change She was a Cynthian spirit, a sensual soul, a life giving poem healing all whom she knew like an exquisite mixture of sunlight and rain daily applying their restorative nutrients to the damaged terrain of a badly burned forest, guarded at night by the changing phases, the ivory white light of the goddess of the moon But….. It was cold outside and the big Macks and Kenworths with their smooth-shifting gears pushed up Route 12 into lake-effect country, kicking up snow like silvery wolves, bright lights like big teeth, running for Syracuse, Watertown, Montreal and beyond “I like it” he said, meaning the trucks on parade, “I know” she replied, including her hair with the north country commerce that connected his dreams to everywhere else