Five, the morning’s still dark sky holds the burning stars eight days before winter solstice and the waning Gibbous moon streams in through the window. Lake Ontario is quiet and the moon silvers the western rim. There is never actually silence as the universe is always in motion; the mind always slipping one direction or another. One moment it’s the moon and another the bright snow. In darkness the eyes are pulled towards light.
three hundred miles:: the sound of your breath as you sleep