Yonge Line, looking forward to fresh air.

Caucasian woman, early 20s, tall and lanky, wearing a long brown parka, knitted cap with long strings. She stores her thick mittens under her armpit and holds the middle bar for support while trying to turn the pages with courtesy, but not nearly fast enough for instantaneous gratification.

Lemon Hound, Sina Queyras (Coach House Books)

Page 52:

And the puddle was the word. And the puddle
reflected everything. And the puddle grew. And the
puddle spoke back. And the puddle was nothing.
The puddle unplugged her.

She tucks her hair into her knitted tuque and zips her coat. He rubs against her ankle and rests a paw gently on her foot. She bends down for one last pat, scratching behind his ear. He falls into a slump on the kitchen floor, his chest vibrating, full of loving purrs. She takes a final swallow of tea, considering the wide-open sky outside her kitchen window, and rinses the mug, leaving it to drain on a dishtowel. She heads to the door past a multitude of mirrors, tiny, large, in picture frames, up high and down low. In her home you are reflected everywhere as a work of art.

Collar up, she steps onto the stoop and closes the door tightly. It's an older house; it takes one and two and slam to be good and sure. His face is pressed against the glass. She smiles at her friend and taps the window as she passes. Hello to the neighbour outside smoking and past The Grotto toward the boardwalk.

The sun is brilliant, blinding. The snow banks sway. At the lake, she sits, face turned to the sky, the crystal latticework of snowflakes reflected behind her eyes. Her breaths steady; her shoulders drop. The winter's breeze licks past her ears, carrying the sound of the water freezing, crackling. A branch above her creaks, its bark giving to its limits, wavering in the gust, until coming back gently to its starting position. Under foot the frozen earth shimmers, warm beneath its coat as she is beneath hers.