Down Blankets, Feathery Baseballs, and The Commute

I fluffed the down blanket and stretched my feet out. And Disappeared. Couldn’t even tell I was around.

If the bad guys came, I’d just hide right there in plain sight. Right in my bed with my little feet stretched out.

The snow is finally on the ground and all the ants went downstairs and the winds turn the neighborhood hawk into a toy and he almost slams into the living room window. A feathery baseball. He takes a break on the tree across the way and thinks about whether he should just give it some time before he works on his commute home.

Everyone is stacked up on the freeway again, crashing one into another-into-another-into-another just like during every storm and they wish they were like the hawk and gave it some time before they worked on their commute home.

Maybe next time. With a different car. And maybe some snow tires.

And everyone is on their phones with their families. A friendly voice to cry to. Telling their own version of why they’ll be late for dinner. And they wish they had a down blanket. And the cop lights swirl out of nowhere into the black white of night and the wind sucks the colors away and all the southbound folks barely notice the drama while their windshield wipers go swish-swish-swish.

The dogs are busy going outside-inside-outside-inside and you can’t finish your cup of tea and relax because they are always wanting something. They don’t understand why you took out the sliding-glass-dog-door just when the storm started eating up the mountains at the other end of the valley. Because snow is fun to play in and then they can sit by the fire and warm up again and why don’t you do it too.

The horses are tucked away in their barn with the doors closed and the heat lamps on and the heated water trough nearby. Happy with some clean straw to lay down in and only wishing for two-and-a-half seconds that they had a down blanket to fluff up.

And in the morning the sun comes out and bounces off the snow and you need sunglasses in the house. The sky takes its regular blue color back to the store and trades it in for a baby-blanket and it wraps up the valley. Wishing he’d bought a comforter instead.

And I fluff up mine and stretch out my little feet and disappear.

And the bad guys won’t even know I’m there.

And I’m smaller, smaller, smaller.

Gone.