It is a mild, white day.
Temperature is about 20 degrees above. Thank you for everything, thank you for anything. Nothing? I wouldn't be around to talk about that.
I want to celebrate the moment. The single instant when everything comes clear, when the true nature of things is revealed. You hold that clarity a moment, then it dissipates in the face of an onslaught of the world's noise.
But it's useless to complain about the noise. The task is for me to find my own silence, and the peace and wisdom that might go with that.
The day is overcast. Snow falls light in wide, lazy flakes.
Main Street in Fairwater is wet with snow on salt. Wind in the flag at the cemetery blows it hard from west to east. North of the village the road is sloppy and not very trustworty. Farther north things look a little more polar. Snow is blown across the road a foot or two above the asphalt.
At the south edge of Ripon, a crow above the road plays the wind, or the wind plays it. The crow faces west, goes nowhere in that direction, gives up and heads east where all things come from except the wind.
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