Horned Green Man

The day is so still. Grey skies, the maple branches a bare lacework against the clouds. I’m making Cedar Spirits, building inventory for the Christmas fairs. Bob is out looking after our neighbor for a few hours, and I’m here alone with the sleeping cats.

I’ve been working in pure silence, not even turning the radio on. Hunched up crosslegged in the loft where I keep the overflowing baskets of shells and feathers and sticks and stones. Hearing my breath in and out, aware of being alive.