Darkness has fallen and even though the days are that little bit longer, let it be known that, even now, when the night does come, the black is still the same as it is in mid-November. That would be a coal black or a funeral black and not a velvet soft black that you imagine, one that is capable of stars or diamonds of white light or a looming black that you can sense on an ocean in the depth of summer, a sea that heaves and shudders with promise.
The dogs still crave the confines of the house. They lurch inside as soon as the back door is opened and immediately settle and seemingly resume, without effort, their deep heavy slumber. There can be days when a false sense of Spring comes and I am all a go, pushing the wheelbarrow and digging around in the soil like a kid at a replenished sandbox. But the feeling is only of a temporary nature and soon my trowel is lost in the debris of a new storm that will surely blow in from the bay and I find that on those days I simply grovel on my knees and find nothing only question marks that drift like twigs of brine in and out of sight.
Some days can be bliss. Even the doldrums hold a sensation for me and in that sensation there is time to consider. Those are the best, the dog days of existence, of time, when not a wind blows and my sail is cast down, biding the hours. I dabble lazy fingers in still glass and allow my feet to daintily skim the surface that throws back a reflection as clear as the finest mountain stream. I bend and scoop up the wine and sip without thirst. Below the surface there are many pearls that glint and catch the light. I want to reach down and gather them up but decide against it. I believe some things are best left alone. I mean, have you ever noticed how sea shells shed that special gleam once taken from the sea and the sound of the ocean that roared like thunder in your ears, can suddenly die with the slow, stealthy passage of time.