Practicing to Walk Like a Heron

Drinking Black Tea Early in the Morning

152 Drinking Black Tea Early in the Morning The gods are snoring. The snow, a sugar snow, falls like a scrim across the outer world. A long winter’s ashes have settled in the fireplace, miniature gray dunes. A charred log lies across the andirons. The dogs sleep. The cats sleep. No branches move. The air is there, in a stillness lost on those who cannot see it matters. My mother will sleep most of the day. My father will sleep all day. There is dust on the shelves, along the top ridge of each book. On the windowsill, a jar of peppercorns, half a bottle of brandy. A walking stick by the door. I have been reading The Art of Babar. Yesterday I spent some time wondering why. Today I don’t. I look at the spaces between each word. 153 Time burns. We’re out of matches. We’re also out of milk. ...