Winter's white veneer
rolls away across the land. A soiled grey haze mars the blue sky.
Tick, tick, tick of the clock. We rise, we work, we sleep. Rise. Work. Sleep. The days roll away - how is it we are nearly a third of the way into February so soon? If life is a little dancing whirlwind when you are born, it is a howling tornado at age 52. The days spin and tear and run.
Even though I can see my breath as I walk out to the pick-up, I can believe spring is not far off. Even though there is frost on the windshield, spring is not far off.
The flag at the cemetery in Fairwater is absolutely still.
The world is lost in haze far off. Two geese work their way to the northeast through it. Even in the crisp air, the smell of pig manure. Fields of snow dirtied with soil. Our winds have their ways.
Two crows on the landscape like clods of dirt showing through the snow.
In Ripon a crow is poised motionless straight up on the thinnest of branches.
Now the sky has closed up with clouds.
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