Descriptions of Surroundings Meant for Less Modern Magicians

Balmy weather plagues the wintery scape that lays in front of my eyes and through the window. The fog is thick, rolling through the trees at speeds meant for panic stricken deer perhaps, but not typically this smokey ground mist. It isn’t particularly thick, reminding me of cigarette smoke falling up out of a circle of huddled workers, probably all in their 30s and mostly women, scavenging what little nicotine they can before returning to the doldrum of the modern work scene. Nice to think that, for those women, their daily lives are more threatening than this dark foggy forest I’m looking into, but even as I have the thought it thickens its limiting hold over my vision and only gives me spots of the wood at a time. A dead tree, trunk shattered twenty feet up, free of limbs and life in an all too literal sense, staggers to reach above the white thick, while a swamp melts its way up through the snow from beneath. It is sixty degrees outside, uncalled for temperatures in the northern badlands of Lake Erie, and the children are out to make snowmen and then destroy snowmen, to whip snowballs at eachother while their fathers cannon giant melting piles of frigid fallen rain from sidewalk and driveway. Winter is grayscale and tolerates no deviation. The sign that stands near the entrance to the long winding road back to my workplace, typically boasting vivid yellows and deep blues, has been salted and sludged and snowblown until now those colors are only as prevalent as the blue in a man’s veins. Never thought of, never believed. Red as blood is taken for granted, clich� to a point, when blood, for the majority of its existance, is blue. Now winter, even in warming climes and enjoyable lazy afternoons, has cast its grayscale hue from sky to salt…

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