This snowy Sunday

Nothing had rolled in yet. Which went against what the weatherman had said. No rain, nothing. For no particular reason the clouds had held themselves at bay, swelling at the summit of Mt. Wellington.

I’d oft look up at the comfortable rock, watchful and appreciative of the every present lump. Resting like hips under snow white sheets. The Lady, surrounded by dragon’s breath. A veil of smoke and mystery, vanishing yesterday in a shroud. The horizon muddled into a grey of anticipation. This snowy Sunday, i’m going for a run.

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