Writing in the Pocono Snow

Snow. It’s coming. White, fluffy, thick, heavy. It’s down batting over concrete. Where’s the sidewalk, the road? It’s comprehensive. Birds hide, Trees shake. Cars and fences disappear. It’s blameless, pure -- absolution for the city, adornment for the woods. It’s a school day on the couch, hot chocolate and cartoons. It’s a back ache, a collision, wet shoes. At night, it's a blanket that quiets the streets and sweeps our dirt beneath a pristine rug. By Sunday, it will be an urban memory, drowned in slush. But in the Poconos, it’s a tale that never ends. A childhood friend, an engine’s enemy. Whatever it is, it wakes me up and moves my pen.