^{Cygne et canard by Morisot, 1889.}

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November Sunrise Stippled in Frost, Gretel on Her Lead

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The swans meringue the pond, sleeping. The dog and I wake early, my red coat blaring in the pastel light. Blades of grass are blue as spruce needles under their crystal coat. This is walking. But upon stopping to admire the swans, I receive the gift of waiting while they wake. Their necks unspool from their backs, stiff peaks of sweet confection. Beautiful as a hallucination, they come alive while I stand still. My dog pulls, leads me forward. I’m so prone to staying, but a dog tolerates only so much time observing. Her little white ears bounce; she is her own joyful thing. I erase the thought that this is not forever. Transcendence ties us all, but some leads are shorter.

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