Sunday 745 MST Earth
I’m hoping for a sliver of sun to poke through the maze of towers and catch the layer of snow resting on the recumbent limbs of the elms lining 100 avenue. I imagine a splendid sight when it comes. There’s a chance. The sky has that predawn purple colour that promises some clear eastern sky. But the sun is low and these risers are high.
They’re not playing music here yet. It’s quiet and besides the two young baristas, I’m the only one here. I don’t mind not having music right now. Still a little tired, having been awakened by thrumming throbbing bass lines, then lying in bed hoping the party opposite our bedroom would end, hating to go and knock and ask–then going, and being received graciously in my housecoat and matted hair. Back in my bed, my request processed, I fall asleep.
My son and granddaughter leave early this morning for their drive back to Saskatoon. Yesterday, the squeals and screams coming from that nine year old as she whipped down the Sun Valley hill, on the southern bank of the North Saskatchewan River on an inner tube broke up my steeling-up-for-New-Year stoicism and gave me the sweetest pleasure.
Doesn’t look like the sun will find it’s way into the city’s nub this morning. So I will imagine a splendid sight: The sun-struck-snow, as if illuminated from the inside, shows shades of peach and seashell, the bark’s grayness yields streaks of deep ochre, and at the borders of bark and snow, there is much gilding going on.