Marching In

The calendar turns a new leaf. You afford it too much meaning perhaps, but when you wake in the morning, does it not seem the fog has cleared from your eyes? You look at the world and do not shy away. The feeling, albeit novel, is not new: it is you.

You sit in the bay window, the quiet street dark outside and a full moon making its way across the zodiac, and suddenly the stories are all there. The words write themselves and you try to keep up, while your body turns to lead in the chair and your field of vision narrows only to the edges of the word processor. You fight to keep your eyes open because you do not want to lose the moment; it's been so long since you felt the words course through you like this and the fear of losing them again renders you desperate.

But another morning comes, and another stint in the window. The street is busy now, with students and dogs and people who have places to go, but no matter. Your field of vision shrinks, the sounds fade away, a whole other land spreads out before you and you scramble to name every creature that winks at you, commit their quotes to paper.

You're sure it was winter once, and the road you walked was desolate. But the calendar has turned a new leaf. And, blissfully, so have you.