in the far distance, almost outside my perception, a horn, like the fog sort. a ferry announcing its imminent departure.
looking at photos of summer, photos that elicit words, you remember the riots. of colour. of leaves. of heat. of people in the streets.
now winter and the crackling of stars. a crust of days old snow on the ground. a fire inside. a dog splayed at the hearth, exhausted after the excitement of new people. warm bodies. a cozy bed upstairs and your book. sausages and potatoes and beet salad and company. we only have each other.