Slush and Pollo

The deep rush resembled a groan. The sound grew as it gathered speed, overhead growls hit the ground with sharp thuds. The dogs stood with sharp ears; let loose with occasional midnight barks. It rained all night. It's raining now. Rain on top of old snow. Rain on the metal roof. Sliding piles mush ice. In this chrysalis time 'tween solstice and 2012, the world is reduced to inbetween states.

So it was I stepped into the dim kitchen this morn, ready to bone the chicken I'd simmered with fresh ginger, jalapeno, garlic and onion. Except Wood Tick had pulled the plug sometime in the night. A cold-flesh white blob bobbed  in the middle of floating onions. Half cooked. Slush and pollo. It's as if the Goddess Herself is caught in a matrix of indecision. Neither here nor there on the cusp of 2012.

I will don a raincoat today on my walk to the mailbox. Rain in northern Montana in late December. At least my snow boots are waterproof. What do the beavers think? Does the nursing griz sow wonder if she's gotten the season wrong as a suckling cub nudges into her fur? Seasons meld and shift with alarm; we are left with the one true compass: the hours of dark and light.

Slush slides down the roof with death rattle vibes; I, rapt in dark.