A thin powder of snow
lays like dust on the street. Once again, a pastel rim along the horizon, a blue sky overhead. I love to see these days lay themselves open.
The final day of the first week of work in the new year. If the first week sets the tone for the rest of the year, I'm going to be a busy man.
A fellow wrote me, says he wants to visit. I suggested we meet at a restaurant in Ripon. I told him how he'd recognize me when I came in: "I'll be the poet in the business suit."
Snow on the windshield of the pick-up, a very fine frost on the side windows. The little snow we got last night softens the lines of the world. It is chilly this morning and the snow crunches underfoot, yet the world does not appear blue-veined and harsh.
I have gloves with me but I am not wearing them. The sun to the southeast is a hot needle poked in my eye. The buildings in downtown Fairwater are promises we have made to the future.
North of the village at the grove near the hawk's tree, the morning light lays up against the trees, giving them a deep red cast. The hawk is not in his tree. I do not see any geese moving. They have their heads down. In fact, I have not seen any birds at all this morning, and I am nearly to Five Corners.
Hunker down, silly, the birds would say in unison.
Imagine a world without birds. How empty!
At now north of Five Corners, a working man's crow fights the wind and goes on about the inscrutable business of crows. At the very edge of Ripon, three more crows sit in conference along the road.
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