The sky in the east
burns with light. The temperature is about 20 degrees above zero. There was no snow during the night. All the trees still bear the weight of last week's snow in their branches. All decisions are final, no decision has been made. Sometimes we go too fast for our own good. We slide down the hill, the toboggan out of control. Even preliminary decisions are final.
Whatever are the birds talking about so intensely this morning? It's too cold for that kind of conversation.
A clod of dirt in the field where alfalfa used to be - there is snow on it, like the white breast of some black bird. Morning sings that bird's song.
There are clouds smeared in several directions. It looks like a storm front coming from the west. Halfway to Ripon, snow is drifting across the road from southeast to northwest. What pushes what away?
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