A pastel sky shading to an open
blue lake of air overhead. The snow I scooped yesterday has stayed scooped. Winter is at a standstill catching its breath. We can all breathe a sigh of relief.
The old saying: As the days lengthen, the cold strengthens. That may be true in January. There is hope beyond January, however - a febrile February, a mushy March, an airy April. Let the cold and snow and blow take us if it must; for it must give us up soon enough.
You fellows must get tired of waiting for the world to come to an end. Give it up! Start living!
The air is crisp. The frost is hard against the windshield. Blueness has taken refuge under the snow. A little sun kisses the raspberry paint of our house and changes the color, as love always changes everything.
At the Fairwater cemetery the flag hangs limp. A bright, cold stillness. A hint of hoarfrost on the trees and power lines, on the brush and the weeds poking through the snow.
A woman drives south on Highway E towards me; her face is set with concentration and the cold, framed with a hood or hat. She looks so serious. Come on, I say, we are not Siberians.
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