Wind and snow have slapped
the Great Plains and Minnesota. We have had only rain. It is a grey, overcast morning. The street is still wet in places.
Perhaps my constant presence in this place means there are things here I cannot see. Does familiarity blind us? Yes, sometimes I think so. Familiarity softens the lines of the harshness around us; everything seems more rounded and smooth. If we came in with fresh eyes, we could see what we've got for what it is; instead we've told ourselves stories and we've come to believe them. And what we believe is not always where is out there.
At the same time, I can see rhythms and patterns no outsider can fathom. What opens this door closes that one.
When I step outside the day feels fresh, like a spring morning. Obviously, it's not spring - the dead leaves, the autumn greyness, and there has not been any debris piled up in snow banks yet and revealed as the snow melted.
The flag at the cemetery flaps uneasily from west to east. A vee of geese marks the sky to the northwest, then the west, then the southwest. They are moving south. It is getting colder.
There is only one field of corn still standing between Fairwater and Five Corners. All the rest of the crops have been harvested. All the crops between Five Corners and Ripon have been taken to.
On Watson Street in Ripon, a black squirrel squirts across a lawn.
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