Arts
When the snow started Tuesday afternoon, Mark looked up the forecast. He hadn’t really been paying attention to it; it seemed pointless, somehow, when it was clearly just going to be one winter storm after another. But when he saw that they were forecasting sixteen inches, followed by blizzard conditions and record cold, Mark called the Corwin Police Department and asked to speak to Lieutenant Stedman. “Lieutenant, hi, it’s Mark Collins,” Mark began. “I’m not really sure about this, but I have a hunch—well, it’s more than a hunch, really. Just FYI, in case people need help during the storm, and in case there’s a major power outage?” “Go ahead, Mark. I’m listening.” “The Rose and Feather has a new generator. They’ll be warm, they’ll have power, and they’ll have hot food. Even if they’re not officially open, you can call Sandra, or me, and we’ll help. That goes for anybody on the force, in fact: if they need a snack or some hot coffee, they’re welcome to stop in. Sandra says, no charge for police officers during the storm. Also, my house has a new generator, and we have lots of space here. In case of, you know, bigger emergencies.” “Okay,” said the lieutenant. Mark could hear scratching over the phone; the lieutenant was making notes. “So, you’re expecting an emergency?” “Well, yes,” admitted Mark. “Don’t know exactly when, though. One of those things. You know.” “Shit. Ah, sorry, Pastor.” “Don’t worry about it,” said Mark. “Wish I could give you more details, but I’m giving you everything I have. Stay safe, and call me if there’s anything I can do.” “Thanks. Will do.” The lieutenant hung up. Jeez, Mark thought, don’t people say good-bye anymore? Maybe it’s a cop thing. Then Mark made another call, to the Moderator of the church, to suggest cancelling the Church Council meeting scheduled for that evening. She was agreeable. With so many people sick, it wasn’t clear they’d get a quorum, even if the weather had cooperated. By the time Sandra got home from the tavern that night, after an early closing, there were already five or six inches of new snow. The snowplows were staying ahead of it, so far, but there were few other vehicles on the road. It was a beautiful snowfall, and after a light supper and a glass of wine, Sandra suggested that they go for a walk in it. The winds were still light, and the temperature was only a bit below freezing. Mark and Sandra walked together in the empty streets of the town. They told each other about their day, and they enjoyed the beauty of the night. Against a streetlight, the snow was making every little breeze visible, and they stopped and looked up at it in admiration, mesmerized by the motion, until their necks began to ache. “Isn’t this beautiful!” Sandra exclaimed. “The way the air moves, I mean. I know the wind is always there, but I’m not usually aware of it, except for the little piece of it that’s blowing on me.” “Yeah,” Mark agreed. “Sometimes, when I’m flying, I feel a kind of oneness with the wind, like I imagine a surfer must feel with the wave, or a dolphin with the currents of the sea.” “Do you ever think about trying some winter flying?” Sandra asked him, as they walked on. “Well, I think about it,” Mark replied, “but when I think about it, it never seems very tempting. Sometimes I watch the winter birds flying—the chickadees and the cardinals, and the finches that come to your feeder—and I wonder how they keep their little fires burning in such weather. But I don’t envy them. I guess I’m more like a bat than a bird. I just feel like hibernating until flying weather comes again in the spring.” A snowplow approached, and they climbed up out of the street and onto a snowbank to let it rumble past. “That driver probably thinks we’re crazy,” said Sandra. “You’re the crazy one,” said Mark, “the one who wanted to walk in the snowstorm. I’m just along to keep an eye on you, and make sure you get home safely.”