On the Shortest Days
At almost four in the afternoon, the wind picks up and sifts through the golden woods. The tree trunks bronze and redden, branches on fire in the heavy sky that flickers with the disappearing sun. I wonder what I owe the fading day, why I keep my place at this dark desk by the window measuring the force of the wind, gauging how long a certain cloud will hold that pink edge that even now has slipped into gray? Quickly the lights are appearing, a lamp in every window and nests of stars on the rooftops. Ladders lean against the hills and people climb, rung by rung, into the night. -- by Joyce Sutphen