We went up the hill to cut our Christmas tree.

My favorite one was growing right from hole where I buried my dog.

I was torn between wanting to take it - to have something of him back inside with me for awhile

And wanting to leave it - maybe someday lean against him again.

I’m disappointed that I still sometimes imagine he’s even here somewhere.

I let myself weep, briefly, as I walk downhill without him.

The hot of it stings my face the same as the cold snow.

The wind is different

Since they logged the land across the road

Faster. Colder.

But I can see the peak of Mt. Washington

In the morning

from my stove.

I always thought that wind was wind was wind

One of those universal things

But I just learned that the sound of wind, here, is decided by the length of the needle on the Pine.

Sooo...

What if there are only Palm trees then?

My breath gets quick like a hiding hare

When I remember there are deserts.

Treeless places.

Tundra.

What does wind mean there?

I have an uncle - a fisherman - off the coast of Georgia.

I’ve always felt so much in common with him.

Now, I think about all the times we talk about the weather

And how we may as well be yelling to each other from the black bottom of the sea.

An octopus drifts by

Made of pure light

Telling me everything

But I ignore it

Running out of air trying to read my own lips.

“I love you. Let’s go fishing.”

I think is what I’m trying to say.

We went to a Christmas party last night.

I found another hunter in the kitchen

Which is almost as good as finding a dog.

When he’s giving me directions to a spot I might see deer next season - and he says “Enter here on a west wind, there on a south. If it’s north, just forget it.”

I know that wind he’s talking about.

I can already hear the place.

Maybe he can hear me too

Like kin and certain squirrels and beetles

Like our wind - all obligates of Pine.

We cut our tree down to size

Bring it inside and drape it in white light

It feels good to see our true spirit

Wind whistles

We talk about the weight of water

the buoyancy of ice

and when we’ll be able to haul our fish shack out onto Long Pond.

Snow falls and piles up

but it’s as light as air.

Whatever that means.