In January
Only one cell in the frozen hive of night is lit, or so it seems to us: this Vietnamese cafe, with its oily light, its odors whose colorful shapes are like flowers. Laughter and talking, the tick of chopsticks. Beyond the glass, the wintry city creaks like an ancient wooden bridge. A great wind rushes under all of us. The bigger the window, the more it trembles. Ted Kooser