Watching snow fly. Wind bellowing down the chimney. Cats chasing a mouse. Winter has just started. Landscape covered in white. Windows frost bitten. Sounds of shoveling. The scraping of metal on concrete. An old man cursing his car.
Autumn came and went. It’s colors did not last but a day. Bare brown trees along the highways. Looked upon by travelers in a country of norms; institutions fading. A place where we long for the familiar. For the old.
This winter is typical. Cold in the Midwest. Snow blows across harvested cornfields. Picked over by crows flying south. A butternut squash on the table.
And I am alone now. She sleeps down the hall. Her name is Spring. Soon, she will awaken.