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  • Yesterday the world was covered by hoarfrost. The world was made from tiny knots crocheted of ice that replaced everything.
    All was gone in a feathery, glistening, shimmering icy simulacra.
    It took more than sunrise for it to drip, and fade from branches and fields.
    I ran from window to door, to back field, to front yard, while the rising sun lit the valley with shafts of fire.
    For a moment I had some peace in my thoughts, held by the drama of the cold morning.

    Chat room lynch mobs are sharpening their knives.
    I can hear them when the wind blows.
    People are agitating as sport on the Internet feeds.
    I hear them talking through the wall, when I put my ear to it.
    What harm could there be in listening in?
    It is infectious.
    Like a fool I lingered and my thoughts became unclear and heated.
    I saw the world as an ugly thing when I know that is not so.

    A faint thought in my mind quickly eroded into a great canyon where
    light cannot reach.
    It is better not to go there, it is hard to escape the gravitational force near black holes. It takes real power to leave.
    Those who live near the bottom of the canyon, gnarled ancient beings, exist on the venom of their own convictions.
    By playing devil’s advocates they can become advocates of the devils.

    Morning light and warmth broke the frost, like shattering glass.
    It took some time to see that these were blades of grass, not daggers.
    I crawled out of the canyon and surveyed the landscape.
    Those were merely opinions I heard, not the lasso nooses from a lynch mob whipping up a breeze.
    It was just a few voices yakking, not the sound of sharpening axes rising to destroy whatever Union is left available to destroy.
    It was not trolls overheard in crumbling mineshafts; just a few people, “Just sayin’ “, talking at the office, out of their mouths.
    They were killing time, not each other. Not yet.

    If I spoke now, it would be so ladylike and demure. I would wipe the crumbs from my mouth without smearing my lipstick and blow the smoke neatly away from the pearl barrel of my tiny revolver.
    No one could see the drop of blood fall from my lower lip as I bite back hard words. Once said, those words leave craters. Those are the fighting words, not a magic incantation. They are a war cry and we are not at war.
    We had a peaceful, decisive, election and the drum roll for insubordination, for impeachment, is a page from a playbook meant to create distractions, diversions and subterfuge.
    Walk, no run! Away from the chat rooms of the blogosphere and into the rising morning!
    The bombs that are falling are yet on the other side of the world, and some days, sometimes, in my head.
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