Willard Leroy Metcalf,
oil on canvas, c. 1908.
February is waiting time, of patience, of endurance, while the sun slides up and eastward.
Tonight is the Full Snow Moon.
We had a brief thaw the other day, with rain.
One could see the air bags of snow slowly deflate; and the snow ridges draw their skirts away from the sidewalk's edge like prissy women.
I glimpsed, momentarily, the black blade of the snow shovel I broke in the storm before last sticking out of the driveway glacier like the ice man of the Alps.
Brief glimpses in these altitudes before the storms return.
Meanwhile I dig in drifts of words.
Fling them in heaps and mounds.
In leaps and bounds.
In search of bones.
Jason's next contest is open at The Clarity of Night.
Enter or read. Either way a winner.
Chumplet, aka sweetheart Sandra Cormier, recently awarded me the Big "E" for Excellence.
I refuse to choose among so many primus inter pares and so name you all. Flaunt it as you will.