It’s that long coast into town waiting for some small town poe-lees. All I got was a wire of snow fell jump served me well. Only middle evidence of plow-age. Pointed boots battle slush and lose.
The salmon falls and all I can hear clouds around. Gin up that hand held safety lesson watch out for speeding packards and it’s up on the snow road-side pedestal bridge over la camisa negra. I take the slush of least resistance. Paths most traveled over bridges in the snow form I unabashedly say yes to. But thanks anyway, Frosty. Night sky and vertigo washed down hear that rumble slow steam roller and my heart wonders what it’d be to be plowed under.
Hop skip puddles and dog paw depths. Ease on up and it’s –ish and deserted owl eyes. I blink and I’m in the midst of decoupage.