The clouds pitch their flurries with the strength of the season. Their arms swell, taut and frozen. They grow gray and haughty with their sense of power: the kings of nature as long as they harness the skies. Long forgotten are the doughy, gentle wisps that have titillated our fantasies. They have metamorphosed into frowning, silent besiegers. At this moment, they are relentless.
Riding through the slushy streets in the black of night. I run the diamond without a stumble, steady and sure. My chilled lungs purr and pull until home base is reached. And who do I thank for my fortunate return? None but luck and trained caution.
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