Winter. Ordinary time. The frozen space between Christmas and Lent, scraping ice off the car window at 6am, the tail end of night, when everything has a crystalline, hyper-real look and my own breath is the only thing moving. I wonder how the rabbits can sleep this time of year.
Indoor life is a small miracle by contrast, as is each new day: walls, warmth, pale afternoon light illuminating the pages of books on Pure Land Buddhism, the SAS, invincible Gauls, the spirit of capitalism; or projects taken on in flighty seriousness: two chord songs, paintings of saints with Tupperware attributes. Winter and lockdown taken together form quite a pair. But the rail trail on a noon run can become a cathedral of orange branches, with its altar just out of sight past the sfumato blue-brown, an undisclosed location between here and Bethlehem. And the old man who carries his dog when the ground is too cold has started motioning to me as I pass by.