Kettle gurgling on the wood stove, warm honey mead in still-cold hand. Pictures made by friends and strangers strewn about the walls, and a dozen down blankets tucked into the bed. (Somewhere, a pea?)

Feet tucked between the (imitation) sheep skin lips of a deep-sea-blue bag (once upon a time the winter lining of a baby carriage). Freshly chopped pieces of oak, wet rubber boots, flickering waxy stubs, loose piles of papers already starting to collect; dirty dishes that can wait.

The couch remains unfinished, and the ukulele only has one string. But the bats are in the belfry, and the magpies are visible from the bedside window. It is 7 pm, and it is midnight, and it is just before dawn, and I am home.

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