saturday morning (on snow)

i seem to have developed a writing pattern. saturday morning, no matter what time we crawled into bed the night before, i get up with the sun and make myself a pot of coffee. i say i'll make the whole pot for us to share but i know that if i let him, he'll sleep in long after its gone cold.

i slip on the couch and under the quilt, i look out the window and think of the things i want to say. they're never far off and are much more likely to show themselves in these quiet mornings of solitude. i am absolutely a morning person.

we went to a friends for dinner last night, good food and good company and the lovely kind of reflection that follows on the long way home when you miss the last bus and have to walk, hand in hand, to your doorstep. i like to be the first footprints on freshly fallen snow.

it's interesting to get a glimpse into the lives of others. the books they've read the art they've chosen the placement of artifacts, some here some there, that tell a story of a life being lived. that give clues of every day choices. i look around at our clues and wonder what they say that we can't see. objectivity is impossible.

the wind makes the snow appear more intense, we see the swirls and squalls and are confused into thinking it's a blizzard. i'll go outside to meet it and deduce it's nothing more than single flakes meeting and parting, meeting and parting, looking frantically for one other snowflake that's just the same.