hundaár

Waking from near-ursine winter sleep, deep as cold arctic seas, I vaguely recall dreams from the bottom of that sea, where I am some abberant version of Nuliajuk, living with her dog husband in exile from the traditional plotline.

I should not be overly surprised to find my hair woefully tangled, but at least it is not so snarled that I cannot comb it out myself.

It is early afternoon before I realize that it is a new year. The streets of Chinatown are covered with scraps of red paper, the remnants of firecrackers. It is the year of the dog. That seems auspicious.