We rise to face a new year.
Have we girded ourselves sufficiently to wrestle from it what we need, what we desire? Have we wrestled our desires into harmony with what's in store for us? We shall not know until another year has passed, until we've heard a spring bird singing on the bare yet promising land; until the frog calls all night; until the fat lazy heat of an August afternoon suggests that a nap is the proper response; until the tractors roar at their fall plowing; gun shots at deer season; another year's blanket of snow. It is enough to be promised a ride into the new year, whatever the year brings. Let's mount up and charge forward into it.
The morning seemed darker later today. Was I expecting too much of the new year, too soon? The sun has turned its corner, but the road back is a long one, the pace slow and steady. I've set myself up for disappointment if I try to hurry it.
It is somewhat mild, grey, a little bit chilly in full wind. No frost on the windshield. The promised snow has not fallen yet.
Streets and walks were a little slippery by dark last night. They are okay this morning. The flag at the cemetery is blowing from east to west. The country wind is fierce as I leave the village.
A line of geese off to the west breaks up and cannot re-shape itself. Snow cover is sporadic on the fields. The ditches are crusted full with dirty snow. Woven wire fences between properties have created their own lines of snow drift as well as any true snow fence could.
Happy New Year!
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