December 20, 2022, at E ghty-One

“For the listener, who listens in the snow, And, nothing himself, beholds Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is” (Wallace (Stevens, “The Snow Man”)

Walking alone in quiet woods, close to year’s shortest day, I notice odd shapes of leafless trees laden with new snow, one with large nest awaiting return of red-tailed hawk. White-tailed deer foraging for food, pricking up ears for danger, staring at me staring at them. red fox scutters across my path. Winter sounds punctuate silence: Whistle of cardinals competing for nourishment with chattering squirrels, while gaggle of migrating geese honk overhead.

In these peaceful days with year running down, life-planning, past successes, take back seat to gentle routines, vague travel plans, sweet memories.

Later: When I try to write, lassitude defeats imagination, gives way to languid thoughts: afternoon nap, leisurely dinner, soothing hot bath, overtaken by sleep while reading in bed.

But suddenly mortality enters, perches on my chair, intrudes on self-retreat. Stalked by images of once healthy people I know: bent, pale, faces distorted by pain, suffering the effects of strokes, debilitating illness, dementia.

For terrible moment, I fear something unruly, threatening, inchoate, unstable, inevitable, raising the frightening specter of aging alone.

I revert to memories of my morning walk, finding solace in nature’s seasonal rhythms: the nothing that is.