Snow, wet and without scorn, falls. A heaven is obscured; the humped vertebrates of rock that form thousand foot hills appear then disappear then appear like a devil roiling, diving and being generally spirited along in a hundred mile lake of hell. Deer, darting between the great carnival wheels of rolling, suspended irrigation systems, fire themselves around fallow, winter-lost fields with synaptic ease. Ravens make playful questions in and of a sky that is pewter and distance-less. A single coyote howls and the sound is stretched quickly to the point of disconnect. There is no space out here for the music of animals — we’ve given the day over to whatever weather is. Hands were bound in the beds we awoke in. Spirits were asked to seat themselves down and enjoy the show. The blast furnace of mind feels its metal cooling, contracting, if only for today. The wheels slow as sightlines are cramped. Prejudice against any day is a Telegraph Avenue walk in a blizzard – never right.