Somewhere on the floor, on this muted multi-color rug, somewhere under my desk a little football-shaped pill bounced from my hand (on the way to my mouth) providing a clue like the sound of a small pebble ringing a bell. Perhaps it hit the wooden bookcase or the base of the metal lamp; perhaps it rolled under the bookshelf, perhaps it sits on a shelf. Tiny white pill are you there with Zsolt’s hair under my desk? Are you taking a rest where dirt has fallen from my shoes? How shall I find you? For now, I just know you are somewhere.

     To ease the remaining ache, sleep called me back to bed, the bed where pain had reached through the quilts and blankets through the plaid flannel gown, through the tangled head in depths of sleep to tell me that a cramp strong as a late-stage labor pain had seized my leg.

     Searching for the moon through a dark window I see only the reflection of lights inside; turned off I cannot even see the outline of trees. Brisk air missing for a few days escorts us across frozen slush every step breaking like a treasured cup slipped from my grasp. The moon if anywhere can only be seen through that dark window at the end of the house or if I could keep my balance in the dark, if I could walk between the fence and the falling into boulders strip of land, I might get a glimpse as she moves towards the road on her way to other places. I won’t do that.

     Rain released heavy snow from the chain links of the fence allowing a wavy view of our kingdom. Stretching, yawning, the three morph quickly into play mode once their feet touch the snow; gathering bringing in little balls dropping them in various places on the floor--Ruger tracks them down, eats them.

    Solar lights shine to lead the way to first light. A piece of moon hangs in the trees, waiting for morning. Underfoot, dirt thrown days ago for traction sounds like the crunching of little puddles turned to spiky ice in Georgia that we took delight in smashing while we waited for the school bus. 

     Almost tripped over Ruger regaining my balance after watching the stars like glitter on velvet performing in silence, the Prelude for Sunday.

     I disturbed the dreams of Ruger, sleeping by the bedroom door instead of on the sofa at 3 this morning. He stood to let me pass to get a glass of water. I wonder if the chirp of the smoke detector hurts his ears, or if something else unsettles him. Maybe he remembered he didn’t get to see Chris yesterday, he missed the extra attention, he missed getting petted. I hadn’t realized Ruger was in the room with Zayne when I put up the security gate. Zsolt, would not be corralled; not interested in my son’s touch, he roamed about growling. Finally released, Ruger got to see the red truck leaving.

     Another silky gray damp beginning feeling colder than the recorded almost forty. The dark water reflecting light blinds me to whatever nudges the pond’s surface creating temporary rings spreading vanishing into silence. At times a branch drops a small bundle of rain it’s been holding; the sound does not reach me inside the quiet house looking out the laundry room window.

     As the day was gaining light, I looked toward the silent pond through my camera lens hoping to see ripples from a beaver swimming, paddling about delighted to be free of winter’s seclusion, only the quiet current of the stream was seen. There are no birds, no deer, not anything but me and the three and even they are quiet.

     Fumbled to see my watch charging on the nightstand...2:39; as I rearranged my pillow, “What was that?” Reached for the lamp that stands beside the bed, couldn’t grasp its cylindrical body nor find the light extending from the matte black movable arm. Oh. So, the light has been knocked over its weighted base not enough to prevent a fall.

     Blue silk, the blue of Vincent’s Starry Night paints the sky just getting light, paints trees in the places they usually stand. Delicate winds stir crisp air. Water, the only sound; water rushing to claim new ground. Dawn will redraw the boundary, the line where the path for now must end.

     Rain caresses our faces in the woolly dark this moonless morning. How quickly I’ve lost touch with darkness; have I missed her? Solar lights breathe a low glow. Perhaps there is less snow to reflect solar light, perhaps the rain has in the woolly dark been magically transforming snow into another thing or perhaps even vanishing.