Wednesday, February 9, 2011


The fox twitched. It had been days now since the last real meal, a too-young malnourished rabbit, and there was nothing in sight that promised a certain future, a breakfast or a lunch or a dinner or a midnight snack. The last remaining chicken coop had been closed down over a year ago, the farmer moved into the city to take a job in sales, and the house sold to a relatively clueless couple who thought about keeping chickens while deciding to wait until the longer warmer days promised by the Farmer's Almanac for later in the season before ordering day old chicks for the coop. The fox knew how to break into the coop under any weather and without any light, but all it could do was watch, and wait, and grow thinner and weaker.

I've reached the stage where it's become difficult to refuse to read novels by first time authors who are younger than I am, which is all in all an awkward moment of staring mortality straight in the eye

apparently some 40% of residential roads in neighboring cities haven't been ploughed once in this winter-of-snow, due to budget crises. How do the worthy workers manage?