Snow and silence
and the surface of the pond so still the world sees itself, looking in. The world does not blink, nothing moves. This morning, this instant, this image.
In full daylight the scene out the window this morning is a winter picture postcard - blue sky, the village laid with a purity of white, sun on everything. A stillness and perfection.
Off to the northwest, a bank of clouds moving in. It will not stay picture-perfect forever: it never does. The world goes to hell faster than you can put it back together, even when you are a writer recording what you see, or what you think you see, or - sometimes - what you hope you are seeing.
Snow on everything, even to the highest peak of the rooftops, to the very top of the trees.
This is April. This is Wisconsin. It's not 20 below zero. What's the problem?
No flag at the cemetery as yet.
As I drive to work, it's obvious the sky is closing over. A glum winter morning now. The sun comes and goes, bright one moment, gone the next. A shivering light. Winter again.