'It Feels Like Snow'
I headed out this morning to walk the dog and instantly thought, "It feels like snow." It was as cold as it's been the last few days but the sky was cloudy, not clear, and the air felt heavy, damp and pregnant with possibility. Down at the creek I saw some ripples on the water and I thought to myself, "The ducks are back." I followed the ripples toward the shore and there they were, a drake and hen paddling placidly.
Modern man and woman are disconnected from the world their ancestors knew 10,000 years ago. We pride ourselves on intuiting which checkout lane will move faster, not whether a bent twig on a forest trail means that dinner is nearby. I laugh at my dog when he gets all canine, straining at his leash when a squirrel saunters by or sniffing a leaf as if inspecting a crime scene. And yet those ripples on the water triggered some deep-seated memory in me, some relic of my evolution.
And as we walked on, Charlie and I, tiny white flakes started falling from the sky. They were only flurries -- no need to cancel school just yet -- but I'd been right: It did feel like snow. And I hadn't needed a weatherman to tell me that.
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