FAR, far above the earth, the goddess of winter storms discovered mealy moths in her flour. Lifting the enormous bag, she staggered out of her cloud home and hurled the whole thing into the black sky above Wisconsin.
Far below, Rudi Saxon was splitting wood behind his rural cottage. The snow sifted through the dome of light cast by his lantern. Rudi’s hat and coat-shoulders became layered in white cold. Between strokes, he listened to the angry sorrow of the wind in the wrinkled fingers of the trees.
The title intrigued me. The writing drew me in. The story spoke a languge I could understand. Morning coffee and the New York Times Editorial Page…Go figure.
