I was talking with a friend who lives on a lovely plot of land way outside of town, her driveway is a dirt road at least a mile long, halfway into it you’re sure you’ve taken the wrong road, but the point is that she and her husband can wake up in the morning and go cross-country skiing on trails they made on their land.
Which they did the other day, after a storm, a storm strong enough to cancel schools and close businesses. They expected to be skiing in deep, clean powder, but in fact there had been only a little accumulation, the storm had been blinding winds and eccentric drifts, the land was hard and the roots of trees showed through a dusting of new snow. So the outing was underwhelming.
We were talking in a cafe, talking about other things, and a neighbor of hers came in, and they waved at each other, and he asked how the trails were, and she said eh, they were bony. Bony! She’s a secret poet, my friend is.