Winter Blue

Snow has fallen on the mountains. The snow line lies below the bank of clouds that obscures the high peaks. Morning dawns wet, cold, gray. It's a long work day, so he is scraping the windshield in the half light before sunrise. This is a rare gift, this taste of sopping cold front, a chill that cuts through the thin desert jacket. He wants coffee, needs it. The familiar acid burn has become part of a morning ritual, tonic, medicine. It is a comfort in these hard times, the ones where sleep is the only peace.There wasn't much of that last night, he thinks as the frost flies from the glass onto his ungloved hand. No, not much sleep means the day will come at him through a lens of cracked prism, a sharp, distorted set of demands. It's a gauntlet, this, he thinks. How much longer can I carry on, he thinks. The cold beauty of the snow taunts him, winking. Not much longer, friend. Not much.