That time of year again when something in the earth tugs at my earlobes each night, the darkness of dreaming pulling me a little closer to the mystery, closer to the center of something that retains gravity but no name. Each year I feel myself called to this place, a seed sunk into the ground, burrowing beneath the leaves. Waiting. Who will I be when I wake in the morning? What will my face say? How will I speak at the dinner table on Thanksgiving when the beautiful and startling grains of quietude have pricked holes in my social pouch of syllables? What animal noise might I make instead of communicable utterances? Who will know me when I sprout fur and claws, turning bear, turning hibernate?
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