My december

There is a season, whether you turn or not. Everyone has one. Variations on old themes, the filigree work consists of the usual maple raging crimson leaves and pollen allergies.

For me its december.... my december. I realized this while walking back from the library this evening in Portland.

Cold winds scurry by your feet in rippling waves, coddling your toes into a delicate shade of glacial blue. Wind blows through every buttoned fastening, and the sun is there, bright, gazing intently out across the grass and fattened squirrels in long sight-lines of pale gold light, warm when you touch it, like 6 inches away from a flame.

But you do not feel warm. You do not feel May.

There are no people, and the grass does not speak, but only moves like tired people in an overcrowded bus swaying at every left turn.

The trees are magnificent, and cold here in Portland. Like the sun, and like it, they too are bright.