Conditions are perfect for a mid-morning
flurry, but the clouds wait. Words should
be falling two feet deep, but florid we wait
in the frigid air for the sky to fall on the
page and sort itself out into something
coherent. Sometimes writing isn’t as simple
as waiting for snow to fall. We have to dig,
poke, and ****. Pick out a word, then another,
and pray the next comes along quietly instead
of kicking and screaming all the way to the
car, not wanting to take the long trip to prose.