Early this morning, my husband shoveled walk and driveway in the blue light of just past dawn, and when I left the house grey clouds still showered flakes upon our neighborhood. But by the time we bought coffee and took the interstate north out of town, brilliant sunshine melted the snow on the highway.
I wonder what used to be here, in these places where the highway cuts its swath? Farms? Woods? On the sides of the road, rocks sit in piles like cookies on a plate, frosted with the night's fluffy snow. Roads divide what used to be countryside into grids, easy to measure, simple to navigate, globally positioned for our convenience. Long ago, would someone have trudged past these rocks, seen the snow covering them and marveled at their winter beauty?