Peering off the twentieth floor at the contrast below can be mesmerizing. Tracks through snow appear and disappear, reappear as decipherable code. “Car, feet, four-footed, that way…” is legibly written out over and over. The bird’s eye view is a quiet one, slightly apart from the momentum of what there is to be seen. The bird goes unnoticed more often than not, is probably happiest with invisibility when considering what attracting undue attention to oneself so often leads to.

All is well. It is February in a northern country, in a busy city. This stillness leading up to spring is natural and persistent though our winter seems to lose its hold on arctic air, coming later and leaving early. February is still February.

Drive on …

This is my friend Les. Les is the ear of a saint. Les is more. Two summers ago he asked Tracy and I to take his picture in the yard. It was bright and blue and green. The grass was long. This is my friend Les who boils the kettle and pours out tea. He came to see me even in my attic and showed me how to make notes with strings. He laughed and asked me why we didn’t have the lessons before his fingers went their own way and he taught me anyway. This is Les. The one eye blinded saw him through the veil.