freakish blizzard

Ten miles from the border. Granted, it was already gray. Granted, it had long been foreshadowing the ominous circumstances which we were to later experience. -The calculating, roguish Firmament. -The wintry Sky. Dreadful Rogue. We traveled ten miles into Canada until our driver prompted a full stop. I looked out of my window and saw the complete absence of color. It felt as though our vehicle and everything in it was a drawing sketched by a mysterious painter on the whitest of pages in the most accidental manner. How, by chance or by purpose, could nature produce such a deathly storm with such indecipherable snowflakes!

For nearly two hours we waited until the worst of the storm passed. During this time I sat in my chair, often mesmerized by tacky rows of jumping blue greyhounds which Greyhound Lines Inc. designed for its interior chair fabric coverings. Towards the end of the worst, the white page ripped and I uncovered a group of tall reeds being beaten by the wind. I watched them for a long time -and what seemed quite painful became quite tragically beautiful. Those reeds moved with every breath and movement of the wind, and bent into impossible bends, and swayed impossible sways, yet remained unequivocally devoted to inhabiting their post. I quite admired them.

We roam atop the blankest of pages. Our color is our attention to the movements of time and our devotion to our purpose. Our design is a mystery only which the wisest of snowflakes may comprehend.