Snow falling and three crows sitting on a wire, the flakes descend with no swirl or deviation. Feathery droplets falling from a white sky, crystalline precipitation that becomes visible only in context of depth; the snowflakes can be perceived only when there are dark cedars or black crows or damp buildings behind them. The words tranquil and grace rise as the flakes drop, something a little more than weightlessness indicated as they settle to the ground. Some are absorbed by the green river’s thick glossy surface, others fall to the black streets and melt, but those flakes which land on the wide waxy magnolia leaves, that drop to the piles of fallen brown oak leaves, that subside on the grassy riverside slope, these flakes stick, and accumulate.

A recluse, solitude found me alone this past sunshine-laden weekend while S traveled a long way north, to Whidby Island on the Sound. I listened to the house creak and sigh as it settled each night. Long day’s sun warmed the timbers and bones, and then frosty night made all the joints constrict again. In warm sunshine that turned my nose pink I pulled blackberry brambles in the yard and trimmed back the wild canes of raspberries.

I danced and danced and danced, and rolled around on the floor, body therapy in sit-ups and jumping jacks. I sewed until my eyes couldn’t see, working on costumes for many performances coming in March, private parties, culinary school dinner, nightclub show with a band. I didn’t eat much, but drank gallons of water. I missed him, his presence, his voice, his eyes, his cooking. He returned before midnight on Sunday and I curled against him and breathed him in, home home home.

Valentine’s Day and I have a meeting with two other dancers; we’ll discuss starting a performance company and seeking venues. Then dance class, and I am ready for an exciting workout with intricate isolations, how do I control, how can I move, what shape can I make. Then home and time for a late dinner, sweetness in his smile, and jazz-accompanied kisses.