Solstice

we dove, we've entered, we are here

Dear Friends,

Electric blue, like Windex. That’s been the color of the sky, the air, the opaque glass-topped ocean. But only in the mornings, briefly. It’s before the sunrise, somewhere between 7:25am and 7:45am, that I stand at my windows and watch the color brighten and fade.

This morning, though, it’s all gray. Murky fog has settled into the crevices of buildings and machinery. A train announces itself only by sound. Beyond the spindly branches of the trees outside my windows, few lights sparkle. It’s the shortest day of the year.

Once, on winter solstice, I went to an art park outside of Syracuse, New York with a friend. We brought a giant bundle of dead things to burn. We walked in circles on the dead grass, chanting incantation I can’t remember. Something about letting go. The stars beeped and bopped above us. It was cold and the smoke of the burning things mingled with the fog of our exhales.

Today I’m working. Maybe I’ll be able to escape to a park for a little ritual, but it’s d…