Sisyphus ponders the season

This morning I laid in late and wrote, prodding at my tablet in the dark. The pink-noise hiss and splatter of cars on the rain-soaked street out front speaks to the season, but nothing says “summer’s over” like half an hour of joyous honking as flight after flight of geese pass over the house, heading south for warmer, brighter climes.

The days draw in, and dawn starts dragging its heels. I can feel myself shifting modes, somehow — my metabolism reconfiguring itself against the darkness. Winter is a state of siege, a war against myself: bad poetry and bright memories line the battlements, pale banners snapping in the brittle wind.

There is no glory to be won here, only time. Victory lies in the refusal to surrender.

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