When you live alone in a lonely place, you start to notice things.
Each of these things is quiet, and – like with you and everything else that breathes and doesn’t – the wind rushes through and around them.
All goes slow or still. Dusklight – the only shadowy movement in the bedroom – crossing the dresser on the drawer that never closes all the way. A sudden raven – smart, and social, and dark against the endless gold and brown and grey – leaves with a whooshing of wings.
People are scarce, and water is more so, but when – every few days – heavy clouds pass and drop quick, cold splatters that shock you with their scent and take your breath away, they cover the footprints you’ve left since the last rain. When days go by without sight of storms or souls, I can track my solitary trails up and down the road, those feet from Sunday with the dogs and the noon, these from the sunset when I wanted the wind, those from the morning before the light . . . each set the visualization of a tangible memory and experience – the “Sarah was here” . . .
Evening darkens another walk, another set of footprints, grasses and clouds the last things – noticed or not – that are left lit.