It rained for three days. I listened. Trying to write of the sound. Sounds. Different tones from different places. In bed. By the window. Each window with its own din. All metaphors are hollow. The rain makes its own sound.
And then it snowed. For two days. Snow. More snow than would ever be necessary. More than we’ve seen in years. A decade.
We both moved to be away from snow. Though in different years, it was yearnful times motivating Steinbeckian migration. Everything in one car. All our cash in one pocket. Start over.
South. Warmer. It had to be warmer. It was that one winter storming conclusion. A winter too long.
We share this. A deeper connection. A winter of our past not needing explanation. All metaphors are hollow.
The current winter nudges unsubtle remind. This has been a frigid season of events. The first rains. The weeks below freezing. The bit of snow. Three days of rain. The foot of snow. The choice becomes seeking solace in the event or embracing the between as oasis. It is hard to do both.
I learned I live in a town with 40 trucks. Half a million people and 40 trucks. Snow forces stillness.
The weight of white brings rewilding. We walk through the height of the falling. The Pileated calling along his line of pines. Our thick gloved fingers manage entwine.
These hueless ribbons of February sky. Spring is close and nowhere near. Cold is the now.
And we think of a time. A winter. When courage, desire, and some clean socks could snug in a small bag.
When we started driving.
1. Cover photo by Author,
© Copyright William Hazel, 2025
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