Coming and Cohen Where the Draft Comes From

You don't bring bread to the mouths of sparrows. They have to come to you. Usually, they come to the bread you've left when you're not looking.

I've been living mostly in the swimming blue of 5 o'clock winter in Montreal, even the nights weren't as full. There was something like a hole, but not a hole. A hole is dug out of something - earth compacted or removed and placed aside. It was a space. Wherever the draft is from.

In summer's Paris bistro, a breeze is something else. But a draft is what the closed window still brings me in sub-zero Montreal winter-vetur. And so noticing this draft was like finding the end of a string I couldn't put down til the other end. I followed it to the kitchen when, without expectation, while heating up some soup, it came on.

He came on like a streetlamp at 5 o'clock. Like a freshly famous face to the stage, belying his age.

It sat. When something sits right, it sits right and you can't deny it. As the soup would sit nicely and I in Various Positions.

There is no more draft. At least, not for now. I have made my peace with Leonard, after a war where I never showed my face and I covered up his head of state like the Reichstag, for the sake of art. But it wasn't because he couldn't lead, it was because I was just a damned arrogant fool.

Apologies to you, Leonard, because for too long, I thought your best work was One Of Us Cannot Be Wrong which remains true to its title. You are so right.