deva vu

stories arrive in pieces, always. sometimes a woman driving down the one-way with her bare left foot stuck out the window, resting on the side mirror. sometimes the thought of a past grief, the image of yourself in a hospital waiting room not knowing any of this, only that. sometimes an image in the middle of the night that wakes you--was it a dream--of pinecones on the trees turning, twisting so gently on the end of the branch, waiting for you to pull them all off. and then, you are snowshoeing through a fresh, late-spring snow and the pine cones are there, miniature, but there, waiting for you.