On a lunch break. Waiting outside for Dede to pickup. Smoke and wait. And wait. And wait. Reaching for the phone seemed like an idea.
December is cold. It’s ice and snow. At the start of the month it’s something pretty. Something outside the norm of dead leaves and bare trees that preceded winters blush. The pure white of early snow is breathtaking. Everything seems so clean and pure. Weeks go by. And then it’s just cold.
It’s out there if you’re looking. Something pretty at the end of December. Something real and not imagined. It’s the seasons and they are all their own. Each distinct in the way it marks its presence. So clear and well understood we can describe seasons in one word. Like snow. Ice. Cold. Effortlessly we reduced so cleanly a great passage of time.
It’s winter and it’s cold.
Spring should be warmer.