Stray Dog Winter

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He arrived in winter on a sleeper from Prague and the sound of the train went boogedy boogedy—what do you want, Darcy Bright? Darcy Bright, what do you want? He pressed his open hand against the shivering window and the edges of the sky seemed unnaturally close. A figure trudging alone in a snow-beaded field with a scythe. A scarved woman behind a wooden fence shaded her face as if there was sunlight. A row of sheets hung flat behind her, mute as teeth, and a pair of what looked like silver foxes capered in the snow. Darcy pulled up his Pentax and snapped a quick shot, feeling foreign, unaccountable. I could paint that, he thought, then he noticed the food-seller watching from the dark and noisy space between compartments. Darcy lowered the camera, smiled. The meaningless incidents present the most danger, that’s what Dostoyevsky said. Fodor’s Moscow & Leningrad just said don’t take photos of anything strategic.

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