Twenty Ten

About a year ago I wrote about a very cold but cleansing trip to Port Angeles on New Year's Day. I still had a lot on my mind as 2009 staggered out the door, so I repeated the trip a few days ago.
No snow this year, but rain thrummed gently against the windows. Moss sprouted in light green tufts across the sodden ground and coated once-bare tree branches in airy, snowy clumps. Blown-over trees and cut cedar trunks lined the gravel road, still red, like raw meat, a testament to recent windstorms (and industrious neighbors).
The moon was out the second night, round and intense and bright. Waking up at two a.m., I fumbled for the switch overhead, thinking for a minute I'd left a light on.