Hypnagogia

It is the middle of the night in a week in the middle of winter. The dark is darker here. The cold is no stranger but that does not offer warmth. Dense fog settles itself over the crop, its booted feet stepping gingerly over the hibernating soil and bare tree branches. There is a field. There was a meadow until a few weeks ago. There are trees but without clothes. At the edge of this bush, I am standing, oddly dressed for the weather. Looking over the slope and swell of the hill into your home. 

It is the middle of the day towards the end of the week in the middle of an indifferent winter. Trees both empty and boughed with russet leaves stand side by side in no awkwardness. Christmas has come and gone with no difference. The calendar says the new year is upon us. I know the old year does not end until the snow recedes in the north and the sun crosses over the equator; until the air blowing over the sea doesn’t burn your throat with salt. I know it is three months still. The equinox allows us to shed an hour, shrinking our rubber band distance by a fraction. 

Now I lay diagonal in bed on pale pink sheets that call for summer nights, in a tee shirt that reminds me of your eyes. I can hear a kettle put on to boil. I can hear ravens. Squirrels. Parakeets. Somehow still alive in each other’s presence. As I lay my head on the pillow, the soft, cool afternoon sun makes its way onto my face dappled with shadow and drowsiness. 

You are asleep. You are warm. There is a sleeping body beside you. You are dreaming of wolves and firelight. You are listening to this story as told by an elder crouched near the fire. You draw closer to listen better. You have a strange sensation this story is only for your ears. And that it is about you. And that is it not a story but a dream. 

When you wake, just before dawn, before you see my letter, you will make your way to the grand window that looks over the field wondering what it is you left behind.  

You will wear this unusualness like a coat of dead foxes. Warm, but acutely discomfiting. Only then will you look for me. And you will understand that last night as you slept fitfully, I travelled, coming through time and season into that place where Earth and sky are one, to find you.

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