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  • Right about now, every year, I wonder why. Why I stay. Here.
    Snow comes again. And ice. And all that they mean.

    Tickles of maybe someday in the throat, around the ears, into the nose. Cruelties. Cruel tease. And then snow again. Slow snow. Heavy snow. Snow upon snow. Joycean snow.

    Friends who live in sensible places, warmer places, giddy with sun, say they're on their bikes, in their gardens, on their front porches drinking light, hearing sun, singing spring.

    Here we hear of death. Out of time death. Too soon death. The right time death. The local newspaper spills over with obituaries.

    And our frigid forecast offers nothing but ice then mud, mud then cold. Snow and rain. Rain and snow. And cold again.
    This will continue for another month or so. Like the same bad song on repeat for far too long. I am getting too old for this song.

    Once again I pull on my Icelandic bear of a hat, my boots, my gators, my jacket, my gloves, my lined wool pants and head out.

    In town people talk of the weather on and on, on and on, on and on, on and on.
    I am bored stiff.
  • I must be mad. I am made of winter. Bones of ice. Blood of mud.
    Transfixed like Diana, no, like Lot's wife, no, Medusa-d, no, cockatrice-d.
    All as the equinox flirts ever closer to this heavy cowl, this perfect scowl. I hate this place.

    Let's move. Once and for all, let's move.

    But just when I say those words aloud, there is this.
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