Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Moulting







The library thrums with energy as I write. The people of my metropolis are in preparatory mode; a giant snowstorm is confidently predicted to begin falling in a few hours. By the time you read this, whatever snow there is to be will be lying quietly on the ground and will have ceased to concern any of us, but for now we are all glancing nervously out the windows.

What is the difference between five inches of snow and fourteen inches of snow? What is the difference between fall and winter?

Here is this about winter here: it kind of screws around for awhile and then becomes serious all of the sudden.

Today it got serious. I wasn't ready.

I went out walking. I was dressed properly enough. But my winter shell has not grown on yet. I am molting. I am vulnerable to everything right now. I am featherless, scaleless and barely have a skin. I feel everything unpleasantly, and the cold is no exception. I was shocked by it this morning. I fear the snow. I regret the things I say. I am going to be a different person soon, I am sure, but I don't know who that person exactly is yet. So I try to read the skies. I plan the future. I look for places to hide. I count the shovels. I cannot wear enough clothes. I lay low.

Here is this about winter here: it kind of screws around for awhile and then becomes serious all of the sudden. 

Just like me.





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