Among all the cold days hovering around freezing, suddenly comes a day of 60 degrees. No jacket, no brisk chill against the skin when stepping out of the house. The outdoors is welcome for existence, and motorcycles are on the roads. The car washes are backed up with long lines of people waiting to finally hose the salt, dirt, and grime off the car and have the water not freeze to the surface.
But then the very next day the temperature is 30 degrees. I sit in my very cold car warming up to go to work, and looking down the suburban street I see the remnants of the desert snaking and whipping about. It is little bits of snow blowing around on the street like sand. Whenever the wind picks up, the ground moves with a vapor of solid particles. Like a serpent whipping about, they trace out the pattern of the wind as it moves down the street, but are gone in an instant as soon as the wind stops. A gust of wind blows a pile of leaves into a swirling column that build to 10 feet, then 15 feet as it moves from the street to the neighbors yard. As I’m fumbling for my camera the wind stops, the leaves fall to the ground, the faint white street swirls disappear back into the pavement, everything dies.
A log of Chris life