Midwinter 'Gatsby believed in the green light..' (F.Scott Fitzgerald) We woke to a dark day twisting around the equinox, light entwined like ivy, the low sun skimming the earth like a flat stone. Suddenly the sun sank, beaching itself, a crimson whale on the shore of the earth's edge, clouds wound round it like a scarf. Perhaps this short, dark day is meant for meditation, mulling over time, how it trips and traps us, how it's continuous trek wrings and wraps us, our slivers of carbon diffusing and infusing with the long ring of sleep. Embers from our fire redden in the afternoon dusk, heat pulsing from your hidden places full of electricity. Over the water, a green jetty light switches on revealing it's location, somewhere far, somewhere almost lost.