Note: Drafted this slice as prose, then revised as free verse because 'Why not?'
Heavy, wet snow,
this fourth day of spring.
Snow sat fatly in tree branches,
bending most, snapping some,
betraying frailty in countless lines.
Each outage proved short-lived,
but I started blaming myself.
Did resetting blinking clocks
or cycling routers and modems
send a sign to the juice utility
to flip off some big switch again,
just for laughs?
I needed a new plan,
a couch and a book.
Before accepting this course
of less resistance,
my friend and I risked
to try for our favorite ski hill.
Same flakes that inspired our expedition
blocked us from our goal.
Was the height of whiteness, I wonder,
the wind-whipped world through which we crept
or my friend's pearl knuckles, gripping the wheel?