Whatever it is, tonight is not a night for sleeping.
I am nudged awake, first, by the suggestion of migraine, sour and sharp. And, always, it seems, there is the wind as backdrop, teasing the old bones of this house. Loosing fragmented thoughts like so many dry leaves.
Old Man Winter, indeed.
It is official. I have grown tired of you. At least tonight, and especially this year, when you cannot seem to make up your mind. Perhaps I could take your wild swings if you were not so dry, so smug with me. But between these crazy bookends--warm, April-like days punctuated by the icy moans of far-off glaciers--you offer little. Little snow, little comfort, little compassion.
Still, friends battle illness. Still, parents dodder. Still, I stare into the fridge and nothing new calls to me.
Tonight, at least, you have grown stale. Even after that irresistible sliver of a moon you gave us last morning. Even after those great-horned owls nearly clipped me on my walk.
No, you hold nothing for me, winter. Not tonight, at least. When sleep, like the wind, howls at me, just out of reach.
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