Onslaught of Things...

Fresh snow here. A coat of white. The deep-freeze. Shades of gray. Dark branches reaching. Scratchy footprints, like hieroglyphics imprinted in the ice on the path. Chilly. Brittle. Hard. The day unfolds. Not welcoming. No sunshine. Dark clouds hovering. The radio tells me this and that, a jumble of syllables, broken words, pointing nowhere. Turns out the news: everything is "running rampant." The onslaught of things never, ever stops.