As I'm sure you've noticed in your neighborhood, a great number of tree limbs are yawning over the sidewalks; they are laying on the roofs of homes and the patio furniture and stretching across front lawns, jabbing into the earth where it landed in a thud.
The snow that had broken those already feeble joints and ripped them off like hangnails or the clothes of rape victims, and has since melted,
but the cold remains.
Energy workers climb ladders and lifts to make repairs, before the next storm crashes over the Rockies. I can see it's muffin-top teeming up for the decent.
There is still much to be done on the farm, much to be picked up, pulled out, spread out, dissembled, organized, cleaned and stored. But the snow crests her doorway, like an impatient landlady waiting to sabotage our tiny efforts, so we might as well give up a little, and I suppose am happy to do so, and maybe take some chances, too.
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