I have to stop writing long enough to get below this surface scratch. Last night I kept waking up to words forming in the darkness. Isolate words hanging on thin strands. That’s what I kept saying to myself.
This morning I was back to counting breaths on the frozen trail. Minus twenty with windchill. The older gentleman who lives at the trailhead was on the road and asked if I saw many rabbit tracks. No. But a big red fox on the ice.
Just before Christmas I picked up a hitchhiker. He wore black ceremonial pants, carried three bags of laundry and spoke of his people. He was going to the bank to cash his food allowance cheque. For thirty minutes in a clear, casual voice he spoke and I listened. One story after another. He told me more than I could write. Though I tried. And tried. Until I stopped.