Crows love midwinter mornings
as I do
staggering, black
and shiny--out of their asylum.
Mornings so cold the air is seized
in the impasse
of its bitterness, a white, violet mist
hovering in the absence. . .

Excerpt from “Crows,” Marlon Fick

Suzi came on our walk. Happiness into the cold woods. The ice was not very interesting. But the air was fresh and my mind was clear. Today prepped for my Wed. morning writers tomorrow, first time returning since our break. Tonight met with my Tuesday night poetry pals, Marlon and Randy online across the miles, hearing their beautiful writing, and getting their help and feedback on my riptide poem. In the afternoon, I saw Charlie in the yard outside the window and he wanted to play, so I joined him and took his toy and Suzi came, again, and we walked to the river and the sky was a stunning, wavy blue on dark blue on light blue, a January sky I remember from childhood, after school, on my way home, up my driveway, along the field, home and my mother inside, thinking about what she would make for supper as soon as it was dark.