Every morning I step out of the shower
into the relatively cold air of the rest of the bathroom. It is a matter of honor for me that I do not turn on the electric space heater Mary likes to use. This is winter, this is challenge, I want to wrestle it in all its rawness. This morning, at least/at last, I asked myself: Why do I do this? I know I'm not going to change my habit but I guess it's wisdom that I'm finally starting to wonder a bit about my sanity.
I am going into work far earlier than usual today. I have a meeting at 6:30 a.m. so I'm rolling on through the cold darkness. Most of the houses in the village are dark now, at 5:30 a.m. Here and there some lights suggest there are folks up already, having their coffee, girding themselves for a day's work. Street lights and decorations and the Cozy Inn sign are lit. The Village Mart has just opened for business.
A car follows me out of town. There are stars in the dark sky. There are pole lights in the farm yards. Where does the hawk sleep?
The roads are clear of snow and ice but we're told there may be another mess of snow and ice coming this way.
As I head north, a couple of vehicles pass me, then slow down. Why do we do that to one another? All of us reach Five Corners about the same time.
The lights of Ripon glow off the clouds above. Who are all these people driving these streets before six a.m. They look like serial killers, every one of them, like me.
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