Wednesday, February 25, 2026, 5.9*, 64% RH, 0646
Orange between the darkness of trees and the bruise above faded into gray without revealing sun. Yard shrinking, Chris moved mounds of snow shaking the mechanical bucket empty into other places. Snow compacted, a carpet for the deck, the ramp.
Cities load snow into dump trucks for delivery to a snow farm. To me, “Farms” are associated with the production of sustenance, they grow things. Snow farms rise from unused parking lots, industrial areas. I hope to never see one.
Zayne nudges my elbow, sniffs the open graham crackers edging Ruger away from me. Zsolt paces. Their clocks have already sprung forward. “Time to eat, mom!”
Routines by nature determined by light.
Photo: LJ Austin
