A storm system dumped a couple inches of white stuff on the ground a couple days after Martin Luther King’s birthday. But snow doesn’t usually stick on the mesa, even when it’s cold. Three days after the storm, there wasn’t enough left to worry about. Nothing the leather-topped trainers I’d worn to the construction site couldn’t handle, at any rate. Brisk snaps of wind carried the scent of pine and creosote. Between breezes, the late afternoon sun warmed my back under my borrowed jacket.
#
1 comment:
Very descriptive. I'm right there with the character. Great six!
Post a Comment