Ha. The second snow of the season blizzarded across the yard. The drift in the driveway was like a blue whale: big and shaped by the elements. Swirled bubbles on the winward riptide prickled my face. Pull the hat down; cover the ear; mind your nose. Soon the warm ceramic glow of bitter black coffee will make numb fingers begin to hurt. Now is the time to lift and scoop. To hack purposefully at the wiles of nature and the world.
That was the morning. Then we watched the sun move across the sky and dapple shadows on the snow sculpted by wind and shovel. Stay and push the cycles spun through my head slowly through my fingertips onto the keys that transform thought into word. Slow. Deliberate. Like alchemists ply for the Stone. Like cooks make soup, only harder to sample or savor. Then it was evening and later, now.
Tastes pretty good.
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