I'm listening on Anna's dated,

old stereo:
The Songs of Leonard Cohen;

The Master Song,

a cat on my chest, vibrating, purring,

with the New Year, mercilessly, coming on,

the horses uneasy in the stable,

moving around inside their boxes,

heads raised,

the wind gusty out there,

the fire crackers rising like ghosts of war;

Leonard Cohen's voice flowing through the house,

tears rising in my eyes, for I don't know what,

ten minutes before midnight

on this farm in the northern wilderness;

”I've lain by this window long enough”,

positioning myself

at the summit of all these memories,

while Anna and I and the animals break through

the barrier of Midnight,

falling out all over January's pale face