Category: Writing

Newly crumpled into a ball, the receipt crackles as it loosens and settles on the table. I don’t need to get up to throw it away – not right now. But that is where my mind jumps. Untamed, it does anything to dodge the difficult tasks of thinking and writing – concentrating and enduring.    

White snow, slate sky, red shed with black roof. This could be a Christmas card. Maybe paint a cardinal in the leafless shrub, and a wreath on the neighbor’s door. When I see those cards, I don’t wonder if it’s cold in that winter town, or if ice lurks under the snow.

On the side of the country road, golden light soaks the stubbled fields where summer’s corn grew tall. Red barns and silver silos stand in the distance.  Telephone lines and guard rails and double yellow lines fly by. The road ahead rises to meet the tires then recedes in the rear view.

I bundle up and dress near the edge of the bed – thermal top, winter hat. I feel old and slow – deliberate like a woodsman about to head out for the day – though less certain in the sharpness of my axe. I’m only walking the dog. The world outside is just as cold.

Yesterday’s sleet is a heavy slush beneath an equally heavy inch or two of snow. The forecast called for rain towards the end. I had hoped the rain would wash some of this away – never came.  A single crow in a tall pine mocks me. Progress is slow. Yesterday weighs a ton.

Sleet tic tacs off the deck, the table, the windowpane. The approaching winter storm unleashes the law firm of my primal desires: hunker down, hoard, and gorge. I want a second breakfast – then some soup and hearty bread. Let’s have a drink. Let’s slouch our way through this. Let’s wait it out.

The dog is too busy sniffing frozen piss at the grassy base of a stop sign to notice the pastel swirls of cotton candy skies. The ground crunches underfoot. It’s frozen hard, and the irony of weather pits these soft tropical hues against a bitter cold that stings our cheeks and noses.

This is what happens when I don’t do this in the morning. I stare at the screen, unable to latch on to anything. The day has passed by unnoticed – nothing of consequence to remember or describe. I look at the dog. I look at the phone. Fifty-two words that feel miles away.

It’s cold and damp with a thick ceiling of gray. Lost in thought on a morning walk, the weather matches my brain. I can’t decide between past tense or future tense. The present only comes to me in revisions – a statement about writing and life. The ground has been soft for days.