Amabile by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Amabile
Page 6
settle on the person’s coat and remain perfectly intact, tiny crystalline diagrams that seem too intricate to be accidental.
He stops again at the brook. The ice here is thin and glassy, and beneath it the water moves with a slow, dreamlike pulse. He crouches, watching the current push air bubbles along in looping, unpredictable paths. It feels like observing thought itself; something hidden, something continuous, something ancient.
Nothing threatens. Nothing intrudes. Yet the woods feel alive in a way that suggests they’re not merely scenery but participants; quiet companions walking just out of sight.
The person rises, adjusts his scarf, and continues down the trail. Behind him, the cattails sway again, though the air remains perfectly still as the snow falls in a more or less straight line, accumulating on the floor.