|
 Somehow the snow is a little like Christmas. We
can expect it. We can listen to the television weather and expect
it. But still, when it comes it’s like a gift - a wonderful,
unwrapped gift - because it is the wrapping.
Doc found it when he turned on the porch light before dawn and the
sheer whiteness of it came to him, and he smiled and let the cup of
coffee warm his hands and the coffee itself warm his insides.
Snow – whether it’s an inch or three feet – tucks us in, he thought.
It’s an act of love, covering each of us equally, as a mother would
do. There should be an ordinance, he thought, smiling, that no one
should be required to get out and drive in it, shovel it, curse it,
until at least the initial magic has passed.
 [to top of second
column] |
Soon enough, we realize, it will be plowed into
muddy strips on our streets and slushed into the gutters and our
shoes will complain and we’ll have to be careful not to track it in
the house. That comes later. Road closures … they come later, too.
When these heavy gray heavens pull back to reveal the moon and the
sun, the cold will come, along with the threat of ruptured pipes.
But not now. Right now, in the holiness of early morning, Doc had
the best of the snow. The gentle, eternally silent blessing of
winter.
It should stay that way at least through breakfast, he thought. At
least through breakfast.
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles]
Brought to you by Saddle Up: A Cowboy Guide to Writing by Slim
Randles. Now available as a Kindle book on Amazon.com.
|
