Hide and seek
Twenty-nine degrees tonight when we went out for dinner. Just after six and sunset was a dark memory. Nobody believes in predicting the future except, well, futurists -- and meteorologists. Damn the meteorologists, because they predict a future in which I'm not interested. Yet that future can't be dismissed when the thermometer tells me it's here -- and true. The problem this November is, the future seems way too much like the past, doesn't it, Fort Wayne? Here winter is again, and I suspect that it never really left, that it lurked among us all summer, deep in the shadows of the trees in Freimann Square where we had ice cream at Buskerfest, hidden in the thin alleys between the downtown buildings where we wandered during Three Rivers, in the coolness of the old Nickelplate underpass on The Landing. Winter is coming, they said at Winterfell, but what they know at the Wall is more true: Winter never leaves; the Whitewalkers are among us always, and all we can do is acknowledge them -- and turn our faces toward the sun.
I'm up in the woods, I'm down on my mind / I'm building a sill to slow down the time