My path is lit only by motion-detected bursts, so the lightning doesn’t startle me at first. I assume it is my failing vision, amplified by blowing snow, that creates these flashes of bluish light, floating for a moment then disappearing. But it keeps coming, shrouded behind darkening clouds, but still brilliant enough to alert my attention away from the shovel blade scraping against the accumulated fall. It glows like a lighthouse as I drift in this swirl of snow, an artificial flare of fluorescent wonder. My back aches, my biceps strain at the handle, the driveway is far from clear, and my husband still drives on treacherous roads, inching toward home. But there is strange comfort in this fury, this flickering sky a reminder of my small place on this earth, a reminder of how little, despite my efforts, I can control.
(Wordle words are in blue. I didn’t use them all this time…)