Edit Try the First

Edits try.

Frozen teeth hang

from roof above

poised to fall

Smoke rising from
behind the hill
lost among clouds

Short Pieces the Third

A single star
in winter sky
eaten by clouds


Smoke rising from
behind the hill
where is its source?


Footprints, no people
tread mark, no cars
the road sleeps alone

Short Pieces the Second

Dimly lit path
slush and mud
caution advised


All the world is yellow
beneath yellow lights


Behind dim yellow glow
the shadows wait
the night to claim
ground lost to light

Short Pieces the First

The wind carves
a dune of white
snow canyon
in cold of night


Frozen teeth hang
from roof above
eager to fall


Silken web hangs
from the lights above
who has spun you
and left you in the cold?

Write Plan

2/5
8-8:15pm, practice room overlooking road up to Shen (I like the lighting), pen and index card, ear plugs

2/6
11-11:15am/11:30-11:45am, Wesley Chapel by window, pen and index card, ear plugs

2/7
1-1:15pm, Roth hill, pen and index card, no distractions worth noting

2/8
9-9:15pm, Roth hill, pen and index card, no distractions worth noting

2/9
11-11:15am/11:30-11:45am, Wesley Chapel by window, pen and index card, ear plugs



Compile:
Lay out index cards on desk. Arrange in order any that seem part of a group. Ear plugs and headphones playing thunderstorm sounds drown out the worst of surrounding sounds.

A thin blanket of snow covers the path

Five minutes ago, a blanket thick

Five minutes next, a blanket again

The plow trucks will only run for so long

A sheet of snow covers the walkways

accented by pale grey ridges to each side

Emerging pattern becoming more intricate

with each pair of boot that treads over it

The texture an eyesore with increased traffic

Something picturesque with decreased activity

Look up, the hill is wash of white and grey

Look down, streaks of brown over blacktop

Footprints beside the path remain, frozen

but still soft as they fill with snow

Footprints shallow on the path easily erased

with the return of the plow and salt showers

Observe Thing Class Do

A thin sheet of snow covers the path. Five minutes ago, it was a blanket. Soon enough, it will be a blanket again. The plow trucks will only run for so long. Until then, a sheet of snow, accented by ever growing ridges on each side, covers the walkways. The pattern of the sheet becomes more intricate with each new pair of boots that treads over it. The texture is something of an eyesore with increased traffic, something picturesque with minimal pedestrian activity. Footprints beside the path remain, frozen but still soft as they fill with snow. Footprints on the path are shallow and easily erased, as they will be with the return of the plow. I see the lights at the top of the hill. The plow will be coming down the path again soon. Never mind the ground, though. It is the sky that requires more plowing. The snow is but a symptom of the perpetual grey sky above. I might have known that it was Monday.

Still remains slippery, despite bags worth of salt on the path. Perhaps the salt is meant for the carpet, ground by our boots. It doesn’t seem to do much for the ice on the path, at least not as it continues to snow. Perhaps a bit of sun would do some good. Once. Even for a few minutes. Snowflakes in the eyes. Squint. Suddenly, the scenery seems more, how do you say, more scenic. Just a wash of white, or grey for the most part, with hints of brown, black, a smattering of green. Ha! Just kidding. There’s nothing green in Houghton winter. The bitter cold stings anything exposed to open air. Lungs start to burn. It is a quiet thing, freezing.