The min-max thermometer on the back patio says it got to half a degree below zero last night, and that it was four above when I started the coffee machine. (That’s usually about as cold as it gets here.) When we got back from our walk, it was almost eight. The sun warmed things up a bit on the walk, so it felt like ten, or even twelve.
The forecast says it will be in the 50s this week, which makes me wonder why it couldn’t just be in the 50s now. Why do we have to share things with the arctic? Suppose I didn’t feel like sharing? Why am I even here, living in such a frigid, barren, windswept place? The coldest place in North America, right now, is my garage.
There’s a package of flour tortillas in the freezer that’s been there for a while. The tortillas are covered in ice, and shatter when I touch them. What if I became like one of those tortillas, on our walk, and the dog just went home, waiting on the front step, while I just fell apart, piece by piece, out in the field, frozen and alone, until the coyotes came?
So I thought I would share more of Cindy’s digital photographs, if I fail to return from our walk this afternoon, as the sun starts to set and the temperature plummets to some black, frozen, horrible degree that only a border collie would enjoy. (It’s a balmy 20 degrees right now.) Otherwise the disks that hold the pictures would probably just be thrown away, like almost everything else. I bet that when you’re dragged away by coyotes, digital photographs contained on a disk that looks like any other disk just don’t have the same meaning that they did before.