Theme and Variations, and: Practicing to Walk Like a Heron

132 Here in mid-January the drifts have hardened after a slight thaw. The snow is heavy. The cats are asleep on the couch. The dog is asleep at my feet. On the radio Rachmaninoff, the piano seeming to be chasing its own notes. Some mail will come today. Some will not. Our daughter is now a woman in the world. This sentence is a sentence. This In the crabapple tree outside the dining room window, there is a cardinal’s nest covered with snow. Under the tree we buried the ashes of our first dog. Outside this window, my daughter is pulling her sled down the street. Later, later tonight, I’ll finish the vanilla ice cream. Lately I’ve been watching re-runs of sitcoms. Magritte’s hats, Duchamp’s mustaches, Klee’s little envelopes. When I was ten, a circus came to our town. For fifty cents, you could go inside a tent and see a baby in a bottle. My father left some of his death behind. My mother doesn’t know. I keep wondering if it’s time to give away some of these books. JACK RIDL THEME AND VARIATIONS 133 My wife is at the computer. The cat is sleeping across the soft gold cushion of my chair. Last night there was a frost. I am practicing to walk like a heron. It’s the walk of solemn monks progressing to prayer on stilts, the deliberate cadence of a waltz in water. I lift my right leg within the stillness, within the languid quiet of a creek, slowly, slowly, slowly set my foot on the dog-haired carpet, pause, hold a half note, lift the left, head steady as a bell before the ringer tugs the rope. On I walk, the heron’s mute way, across the room, past my wife who glances up, holds her slender hands above the keys until I pass. JACK RIDL PRACTICING TO WALK LIKE A HERON ...