Fiddling in a January Thaw
I fiddle a winter song beside the stove. The music catches the midnight of an old clock, and its chiming noise half-works into the fiddle strings like a shadow on my fingers.
I stop because I can't remember how the song goes, then I open the stove door. I toss in a small oak slab. A few sparks fly out of the stove and blink out on the wood floor. The kitchen is smoky and dark, and ready for me to fiddle and stomp-dance another song.
The night is warm for January. I can hear an owl, hooting close enough that it seems to be forcing its voice straight through the farmhouse door. I wish my fiddle strings could catch the owl song.
the water could drown a gnat
thawing on the porch.