Time lingers. Thoughts reduce to scent, to syllable. There is a continuity to quiet.
A thin snow sifts over the bay, obscuring the far shore. I can find no color break between sky and sea. The only variance is an undulation, like a curtain's, within a pewter mist.
The little cat perches on the window seat and stares at a wheeling gull. Behind me, an odor of toast floats from the kitchen. From her frame over my desk, an ancestor, frozen in Sunday silks and lace, smiles her Mona Lisa smile.
I wonder how it would feel, to be forever snared in that moment.