A journal of narrative writing.

i I’d seen a hawk against a white winter sky, circling squirrel tracks stitched back and forth across the snow; only in the body can you find the spirit, there’s the rub. ii It will be all of one thing, or all of another. The question is, do you vary your route or not, your centrifuge of minor ventures into the pink. iii (There’s heart in it, after all.) I saw the hawk again flash low through bare snow dusted trees. It must be a god it’s so cold.