We talked about the warm places we loved, about Cuba, Venezuela, Mexico, and the summer to come. But it is hard for a relationship to carry between seasons
It was not a long love affair; we barely made it to spring. But all through autumn and into winter, we spent every other night together.
I am not good at this season. I loathe the cold, the blanched land, the flatness of a winter sky. I have to look hard for its joys and hold on to them: rook caw, sharp light on rosehip, the morning frost crowning the blackthorn.
