Snow. The rumble
of a blade scraping the street. A car's engine roaring as it warms up in a nearby driveway and the idle won't kick down. Morning is a slow greyness.
We come to the world grateful that we're here at all, so why do we complain about the way the day lays around us? Why do I bring my hierarchy of unhappiness to this fresh start?
Consider those who have real troubles, I tell myself, and shut up, Tom.