We all have our rituals,
I suppose. I have mine. Mary rose early to work on her computer and my morning has been disrupted. Even my shower. I got out of the shower and nearly forgot deodorant, for instance. Ah, strange ways of the mind.
A grey sky. It is probably twelve degrees above. Relatively mild. North of town, a line of geese rises into a light fog and heads northeast into the greyness. A truck comes up behind me; it is hauling sweet corn silage. The snow is a shabby blanket, tattered in places, dirty.
In Ripon, a crow crosses the street in front of me. Crow looks confused.
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