Feb 28, 2016 – Kawartha Cabin Part 2

Alone here this time.

Well not alone – with Winston, my dog.

Instead of a vacation the Kawartha cabin becomes my office.

My office with a wood stove & bunk beds & a view of the storm

puffing in just after we arrive.

The open field, through the door’s window, losing its top layer of snow.

The wind – the bully – pushing and shoving the snow up

only to let her fall back down again

confused and suddenly covered with a new fresh layer from the sky.

The camera unable to distinguish between flakes flying sideways.

Pale lines against the pines captured.

The drive here dry.

Dry and cold enough for me to park through the meadow.

Driving over hard mud, thinly masked with ice.

The wheels bumping, the water cracking

that free feeling where you’re not sure if you’re going to be stuck.

Here on my own this time.

Must seem peculiar to Glen and Yvonne

my airBnB landlords again for the next 60 hours or so.

My reading week I explain, I teach

and I’m a writer too I guess

a playwright mostly, they nod, like nice people do.

Glen asks about a comedy for his town in the summer.

I say something about Norm Foster

like he needs any more work in rural Canada.

Before going back up to the farm

Glen said something about coyotes

and the pup’s droppings drawing them near.

“Bobcaygen” is coming out of the shower radio

a Christmas present from my father.

Bobcaygen in Bobcaygen

How could I be so lucky?

Nostalgia for me

Identity for them

Do you think there’s a limit on how many times they can play that in a year?

I’m excited to hear it really.

Nobody plays the tragically hip in Toronto

but we do have tall men with no teeth

who say stuff like, “Who’s walking who?”

when I’m out with my dog

standing together waiting for the light.

At the cabin Winston runs

free from concrete and leashes.

I worry I’ll lose him to the squirrels and the birds

but he’s pretty good at finding me.

3am fires almost out

but with the help from old news

and a splinter in my right hand

she’s back full force.

I look at the dog annoyed at the movement

I guess he’s right it’s too early

to write on my own in the dark

or is it too late?

There’s howling outside.

Winston’s immediately alert.

Glen’s coyotes have come.

I know the door’s locked

but I check again to be sure.

The dog mistakes this for a sign

for an early morning walk to the howls

and I spend the next hour

petting him to sleep

breathing my heart to rest.

The moon much too large to fit in the window.

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