I don't know whether you'll hear me writing this, from my eyrie above a fog that should not be gathering in January. For all I know, you've been listening all along.
Some absences are easier to navigate than others; I am becoming a regular mariner of near missing, and what you imagine I'm writing about is only the thing I think I could explain, not the thing that might well come to matter more.
While I wander, I will collect these windings and weavings in log books bound in calf. I will gild their covers' script. I will sign my leaves in unimagined colors, gather them in the most complicated duodecimos. I will use only the finest nibs, and an ink the precise color of this moment of dusk.
I will etch the details again and again until someone figures out what I'm feathering, how great the humility of its wanting, how sweeping and soaring its coming spring.