Blue Norther

Our Barrio in the Sausage Capital of Texas was coming to life. Old Man Winter giving us a breath of warm air. Folks sitting on the porch swing, sipping their morning coffee. The railroad crossing at the edge of the property sets a romantic tone, as does the clatter of the tin can recycling machine just down in the dip across from the Texaco. The loud donut girl was chortling, flirting with the guy who leaves his truck door open and turns the stereo all the way up to muffle the grunts and screams that will issue after they go into the house. We sit there, at our ease, talking about how sweet life can be. A thought-form ripples through the pecan trees in the orange light of dawn. “Red sky at morning sailor take warning.”

If you folks were to get up and look around the corner of the house toward the place where the railroad tracks go, you would have seen it. But nobody saw it until it roared into the neighborhood like Cleopatra’s barge towing the Black Plague. The aptly-named Blue Norther turns gunmetal blue mixed up with milky fog. It drives the clouds right down out of the sky. Fog swirls around like the smoke a magician uses to cover up his tricks. Leaves get up off the ground and dash about like a cat stuck in a slaughterhouse. The bone-chilling cold does not register until it has a chance to penetrate your skin and muscle and the soles of your boots. You’re going to be cold until you can do something substantial about it.