Pillow Snow

The snow comes across the sky

like feathers from a pillow-

one that perhaps you have smashed

with reckless joy

against your best friend's head.

The flakes, too, are reckless.

They see me through my window.

They flock against the glass

to get a better look at me.

They show me their six identical corners.

I show them my two unique eyes.

by nessa locke 2021

Snow. Meh.

My little Ford Focus coasted very well across the snow-covered, idiot-packed streets today. I'm happy to be alive.
When I was about about half-way to the college, my phone chimed its little chime. I'm such a rebel, I checked it while driving, despite the new law against it.  Dr. Ferguson had emailed us and let us know that he wasn't going to hold our absences against us, but if we showed up, we could go ahead and write our response papers as planned.
I was already half-way there, see, so I just kept chugging.
He left before class was over and let his assistant collect our papers.
That was the mood of the day.

I've been snapping pictures over the course of the week. I like to play around with the filters on the photo editor, make 'em all artsy fartsy. Sometimes, I get some winners.

I wonder, how did birds stay warm before electric lines?

Wordless Weather

White Fury

     Winter blows through Amarillo this morning, and she is one furious bitch. Visibility is a fantasy. I barely make out the forms of my two oldest sons trekking their way home from the corner store. (Can you believe they are old enough to buy cigarettes?)

     They burst through the entry, bringing along an icy gust that whips through my tiny house like a poltergeist and scares the heat right out the door.

     David asks me if I've stashed any scarves or stocking hats under the tree. I have to remind him that this is still Texas, and the weather will be warmer tomorrow.

     I turn away to check the bacon and to hide my smirk. I only feel a little guilty that I did buy them winter gear, but we won't open gifts until the grandkids get here.

So Many Flakes Out There

I've never understood those people who get out in the snow. They buy snowboards and sleds and go outside  to play around in the cold wet blanket of misery. They roll around in it, cruise through it, pick it up and throw it at one another. They build things with it, like igloos and snowmen and icy fortresses. They spend their day calling their friends and making plans to go snow-sliding together. They can be seen in huddled masses at the park, slinging each other across the down-slopes.Then they return to their houses with their noses half-frozen and their clothes all wet. They are home just long enough to warm their coats in the clothes dryer and change their socks, and then they are gone again.

What's really befuddling is that they seem so happy about it. The Freaks.

I'm the one cuddled up in a blanket with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate. I like the way the snow looks as it's falling against my window. I enjoy the peaceful quiet of the neighborhood before the children wake up and discover what Mother Nature has bestowed upon us. I like that my car is parked safely in the garage and I have no need for the ice scraper in the trunk.

But you know what? My grandson, Lyric is coming over today to spend the day with me. He is nineteen months old, and he has never built a snowman.

I just might have to be the one to show him how.