Hunger

A white froth lays upon Princeton, it mutes all colors, softens harsh angles, finds then fills crevices. A froth so fine it is lighter than rain, it does not like to fall straight down, but prefers the twisting air currents that lift it in dance. Flakes swirl in silent vortices and eddies, unveiling the invisible flight of air currents. Never has air felt so naked.

Freshly fallen snow sparkles with the reflectivity of tiny mirrors, directed in all possible angles. Leafless trees find solace under its blanket, each branch is accentuated by a delicate topping. The trees shed their skeletal bareness, and acquire the quiet grace of ice sculptures. Satellite dishes transform awkwardly into bowls. Like clockwork, the locals take to their boards and converge to the slopes of my golf course.

I hunger for sand dunes that rise forbiddingly high, so that their climbing saps both strength and courage. At its apex the winds tighten around a line singularity, and it is impossible to stand. Bo and I crouch against the precipice, searching anew for a resolve that has dissipated. Fear and wonder are interlaced, and the board feels a flimsy thing as we descend, headfirst into gravity’s domain.

At night I duck under my blanket, wrap myself in darkness, then rake my fingernails across the blanket’s underside. On my fingertips, ephemeral balls of light, made fuzzy by night vision, pop into then wink out of existence. I am quietly thrilled in their afterglow, in my private wonderland. I am reminded of winter in SD, when Jimmy showed me how it is done. In the Sixth study, he built enough charge on his body to light up a naked bulb by touch.

Sincere came in to remark on the grand view in my office. Fortuitously, an eagle alighted on a chimney.

I have a pet snowman. A gift from Fake, he sits stoically outside my window. A recent accident decapitated him. I waited till the snow warmed to slush, and fashioned him a head. It is not a beautiful head, it has no features to speak of. His stolid presence is oddly comforting. As I toiled over a promise on the first morning of spring, his neck dissipated in the warmth and finally snapped. His head toppled and cracked open. I watched this in horror.

A storm blew in, carrying hope and rebirth.