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Snow-dumb. It’s a sensation that overtook me quite a few times as a professional driver. You spend so much time fixated on a field of white rolling along, mile-to-mile, and your brain blurs. I’d forgotten about it until a few minutes ago. Hell hath no career like truck-driving. I left my truck unlocked and wide-open
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I exhale winter’s last pure breath. Soon, it’ll be nothing but a memory; replaced. Recorded over by the next snowfall, if ever. A rarity to the southern-born child. There’s miles beneath these mild-winter feet; Rockwell art come to life. The 1950’s Holiday dreams marked and remembered by every child twenty years after the fact. The









