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I don't love the woods it occurs to me, the leafless, brushy, November popple trees that stand around crowding the peripheral vision, each waiting to take its place in my consciousness and each falling back to become a part of the line that divides gray earth from gray sky, as undistinguished as gray hair.
Over there one shaft of sunlight penetrates the clouds as if it were an indicator. As if something was being called to my attention. What? More frozen trees? What is it? It's as if someone leaving on a train says something as the cars begin to move, something through the glass. I can see his lips moving. Gestures. What? I can't hear you. What?
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