For the first time this year the weathermen have missed. The predicted snow has materialized as rain. The Duramax rumbles along beneath my right foot, its sound largely lost in the hiss of water. The pair of small plow lights spear into the wet night, trying and failing to push back the darkness.
Steaming banks of white line The Turnpike, attempting to sublime away into the night. They can’t go fast enough. Inky black puddles dot the highway, waiting to trap the unsuspecting or the unprepared with their dangerous magnetism.
The radio murmurs a background soundtrack of forgettable music and advertising. Eventually my mind begins to pick a pattern from the noise.
Night suddenly turns from chore to adventure as life once more imitates art.
The plow blade catches a puddle, projecting a huge brown wave up and forward as Jim and I churn onward into the blackness.
Notes from Mosquito Hill 