Barely Any Help at All

Scrolling through the last few months of posts, I see the same themes repeated again and again: Snow. Driving. Cows. Writing, either the act of, or the teaching of (as if). And so I’m leery of mentioning the snow in the night, or how I awoke to the sound of it sliding off the metal roof (Vermont roofs. Two words: Metal. Steep.) and thumping to the ground. Or how yesterday I drove back roads (again) past rotting snow banks, churning through mud and potholes, balancing on the spines of deep ruts. Or how today is the last class of the semester, and how much I’m going to miss my students. In a strange way I don’t yet understand, I’ve come to rely on them for something.

It’s nearly full daylight now. A beautiful morning, the air lit from the ground by the new snow, the closed-up sky barely any help at all.

Here’s a quote from Edward Abbey to start your day:

“If I had been as capable of trust as I am susceptible to fear I might have learned something new or some truth so very old we have all forgotten it…”