Fresh Tracks
I can’t quite explain it but there is something freeing and surreal about driving a snowy freeway while listening to Jack Johnson sing about recycling. I had just been cleverly surprised to hear Donald Miller speak and was subsequently wading through the swamp in my mind. Yes, the frozen ponds of my mind were being to thaw yet I was witnessing the inversion on the other side of my window.
Like the cars on the road my mind began to wander. As per my usual observation, SUVs seemed almost a disadvantage contrasting their commercialized appeal. The only sporty fresh tracks these urban wagons are making lead to the ditches. Nothing proves inertia like 1.5 tons of reinforced steel.
Approaching home, it became apparent no one had dared to venture the testoster-hills. With unwavering trust in my aged-econo-import I spun my way up the streets. Though I can’t completely compare it to the sensation of skiing the lure of fresh tracks had sent out an invitation and with little hesitation I replied. Forgetting about home, I searched for virgin snow in the dead ends and cult-de-sacs of the Metrotown hills.
A stride of speed lends its hand to a silent merry-go-round spinning the winterscape past the smeared crystals which glaze my windshield. Each street lead me thought a breathtaking dance upon the frozen glass. However, as sweet dream stunted by your alarm clock, the reality of sleep and a waning tank of gas brought about the end of the ball. Like an enchanted young boy after a goodnight kiss, I meandered the streets leaving a lacey signet of inverted turns through the corridors of cars to my home. As if to dismiss any wonder of blame for the creases on the white dress, the only tracks will lead their curiosity to my front door.
Like the cars on the road my mind began to wander. As per my usual observation, SUVs seemed almost a disadvantage contrasting their commercialized appeal. The only sporty fresh tracks these urban wagons are making lead to the ditches. Nothing proves inertia like 1.5 tons of reinforced steel.
Approaching home, it became apparent no one had dared to venture the testoster-hills. With unwavering trust in my aged-econo-import I spun my way up the streets. Though I can’t completely compare it to the sensation of skiing the lure of fresh tracks had sent out an invitation and with little hesitation I replied. Forgetting about home, I searched for virgin snow in the dead ends and cult-de-sacs of the Metrotown hills.
A stride of speed lends its hand to a silent merry-go-round spinning the winterscape past the smeared crystals which glaze my windshield. Each street lead me thought a breathtaking dance upon the frozen glass. However, as sweet dream stunted by your alarm clock, the reality of sleep and a waning tank of gas brought about the end of the ball. Like an enchanted young boy after a goodnight kiss, I meandered the streets leaving a lacey signet of inverted turns through the corridors of cars to my home. As if to dismiss any wonder of blame for the creases on the white dress, the only tracks will lead their curiosity to my front door.
posted by neseirf ekim at 2:24 AM
2 Comments:
SUV's provide some assistance in the snow but their is no compensating for stupidity. I keep finding myself humming "it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" and I can't help hoping this snowy wonderland lasts for a little longer, the northern girl in me savors this weather. I keep thinking I should be skiing, anyone going this weekend?
don miller taught one of my classes a couple weeks ago. i think he would be proud of a blog such as that one. how poetic.
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