Fast typing - "Back Soon; Driving—"

The way the present cuts into history, or how the future can look at first like the past sweeping through, there are blizzards, and there are blizzards.

Some contain us; some we carry within us until they die, when we do.

The snow falls there, barely snowing, into a long wooden trough where the cattle feed on those apples we used to call medieval, or I did,

for their smallish size, as if medieval meant the world in miniature but not so different otherwise from our own, just smaller, a bit sweeter,

more prone therefore to rot quickly, which is maybe not the worst thing.

Revelation is not disclosure.

I love how the snow, taking itself now more seriously, makes the cattle look softer, for a moment, than their hard bodies are.