The morning sky holds no light, overcast from any moon or stars or promised sunrise. Only street lamps cast my shadow, a blur in this digital world. Even when the grey morning whispers, nothing catches my eye.
At noon I walk on the grimy, snow packed road, passing a backhoe with it's claw so far into the earth the driver must lean forward like riding a horse downhill. The bucket raises and dumps browish black earth into a truck parked on a lawn. I walk the middle of the street, but peek into the destruction, snap a few pictures. Keep moving.
I have my scribbler under my elbow, armed with a pen. I have good news for my girlfriend and we share a few tears and I hold the baby until he wants to be walked. Then mommy scoops in to the rescue.
The walk home is full of signs: danger, high pressure, healing, all nations, first aid cross, exit, no exit. The snow in the ditch is crusty. The snow along the road is dirty. The snow in the fields is patchy. What is something that begins with a holy ceremony and ends with a legal argument? A broken promise. A broken relationship. A broken heart. Treaty teaching is up close and personal today.
And yet beauty is one snow fall away. Unexpected gifts. Giggly smiles of a baby. Playing the hamburger lady in the window while the three-year-old drives by in his plastic car, holding a batman car up in payment. Mended pipes reburried. New angles on old shots. A candle beside a hot bath.
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
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