The Kelpie's Hibernation

Winter. I have had problems with her in the past. When shes just cold enough to rain instead of snow I despise her.

Grumbles of the booted brethren donning more layers as armor against the onslaught, aren't heard through ski masks. When I ran from her, I booked it. Quickly. Southern latitudes assuaging the soul, kneading broken spirits like dough early to rise for a jaunt on the shores of Caladesi Island.

Pockmarked, riddled with the fresh scars of November. Fresh skin glaring like birthmarks. Lips chapped. 2 sweaters, sweatshirt, winter parka. Wool hat.

A smile? Fucked if I know why. But yes, I'm wearing one like that wool chapeau. I am turning a corner. Blindly. It may be the pints that are proffered by my beaten brethren, the lads that stand in the shite weather for a living; who congregate to quaff for warmth and hobby, and yet I think it may be something more.

It's the junkies itch of the warmth to come. Boat rides. Elizabeth's Islands. Hurling invectives at wildlife for the irony. Throwing oneself off houseboat rooftops into warm water instead of into the windscreens of moving vehicles.

I will watch through the glass of her zoo enclosure as she sits silently. Patiently. Shes wait for the turn of the key to do the two stroke into Broadway.

These new scars cahn't wait to ask for the first dance.