storm

From my kitchen, I can see the faint glimmers of the rising sun through the bare tree branches of the forest behind my house. To my right is my snow covered driveway, strewn with a few broken branches. The bamboo is frozen in a pile of snow. Red cardinals fly in and out chased by small chickadees. No ghostly fox has appeared.

The calm after the storm rent by snow blowers, clanging snow plows, and the scraping of shovels. The road is a slush strewn mess of dirt, ice, snow, which has been churned up by the trucks and cars. No one is sledding or playing today; everyone is rushing off to the store and work. Everyone is preparing for a holiday, forgetting the signature left by Mother Nature.

Only I am home watching the sun hit the icicles on my deck, the water dripping slowly out the drainpipe, flooding my driveway in a careless pattern.