I Can Hear it in the Wind

     Saturday – I want to walk, get up, get out, get moving. Do something. Go. But it’s cold with the snow and the wind over the frozen ravine cuts into me. I’ll go as far as the top of the hill, maybe a little more. You can see the highway from there. Call it just over a mile. Enough move the blood.

    It’s been a year, maybe a little more, of war and smoke filled streets. Blood. Evacuation order without notice, without warning. Eviction orders and arrests without warrants. Fire on the hillside, in the neighborhood of beige and gray houses. God and silver and precious oil – wood, and hay, and stubble – let it burn. They all will burn. And the fire will reveal what it’s all worth.

    I can hear it in the wind: What is this new-found fascination with truth? With fact? The cold war is here. Freezing. There’s no time for careful deceptions – for photoshopped photos, AI manipulations, or hand-forged letters. Get out. Get gone. The ICEman cometh. This is the way. This now. You thought you could change the world? Get out. Get lost. One day you’ll understand the long-term value of verbal abuse.

    Pull the coat a little closer. Walk a little faster. It’s colder than I thought.