So now we told there's a winter storm
rolling this way, which may dump as much as six inches of snow on us. I believe it's supposed to hit today. Since I don't pay much attention to forecasted weather, I'm weak on details. Anyway, I like to report what we actually have to live with rather than what has been forecast.
Some of us keep constantly looking for what's coming and some of us enjoy what we've got while we've got it.
Far off, a sandhill crane is craucking, communicating some displeasure, no doubt. Overhead, a dark grey sky. Water on the pond, dark grey and disturbed. If one watches out the corner of an eye and imagines just so, there are snowflakes coming already.
Today the wind is blowing HARD from east to west. Everything we gave away yesterday is coming back.
The musky smell in the swarmy heat of the feed shed at the farm, Curlew, Iowa, when I was growing up: maybe another emblem of my discontent on the farm, its repetition of tasks, repetition of tasks, repetition and the limited horizons. Tasting that smell, I taste the desire for more. Desire curls like the taste of smoke when you need a cigarette.
There is a hole now on the triangular piece of ground along East Fond du Lac Street in Ripon, for the foundation of something, one supposes.
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