December 5, 2013
“I thank you, God, for most this amazing day.”
I pray with E. E. Cummings and look through the morning window to see snow blanketing the ground in Fayetteville.
I walk to the front door in my pajamas, open the door, and stand barefoot on the cold concrete of the front porch. A winter chill is an exhilarating thing, a thing that reminds me that I am alive in the wide, wild world.
The flakes are small—spit snow, I’ve always called it—but they are falling fast and hard and are piling up on the ground.
A white blanket stretches across the neighborhood, into the town, and out into the rural areas. It stretches onto mountains and into valleys, covers the banks of the Illinois watershed, the sides of the Boston Mountains.
I imagine the view from Hawksbill, how the valleys below are filling with an iridescent beauty, how the elk are craning their necks upward in their morning calls, how their breath is swirling upward.
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