EVENING

 

With a burst of steam, he pours the wine into the pot. Fragrant red wine fills the air. He takes a sip from the bottle and starts scrapping the bottom. After a few moments, he pours in the stock. Stirs. 

The sliding door to the deck is open a little. It's warm inside with the heat of the wood stove and the oven going. Outside, just beyond, the high tide surges on the beach. He cooks with a heavy surf accompaniment. The sound of the waves. He cuts his kale. 

He looks up to see them on the couch together. They are a tangled knot of limbs, flannel and fur. Both sound asleep. The dog snores. He stirs the soup and covers the pot. Sets the heat to a safe simmer. 

 

 

“At no other time does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honey-sweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.”

Rainer Maria Rilke