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Listening To The Wind
Nowhere to go and nothing to do.
The Bomb Cyclone (also known as a “winter storm”, but that’s too boring a term for our over-stimulated age) has me trapped inside, and I’m already bored.
I shouldn’t open the blinds, but I want to see what’s going on out there. I want to go, I want to be out there with the whipping snow and bending trees.
I’m not actually an outdoorsy person — I have never and shall never poop in the woods — but bad weather calls to me. I want to put on my Carhartt-branded armor and battle it. When manly men offer to plow my driveway, I decline. This is a war only I can wage.
In a case of incredibly poor planning, I have no idea where my boots are. If I was a pioneer, I would die immediately.
They’re probably in the closet under the stairs, which is something a child or a serial killer would love. It’s a selling point I’ll have to emphasize when I eventually move.
Hershey tolerates me rubbing lotion onto her paws for a few minutes. Her pads crack from the many miles we log on rough sidewalks. She looks worried, but she knows that the indignities she suffers, like the many sweaters and raincoats and the glow-in-the-dark disco collar, are for her own good.
