Winter

Flakes are ever falling, ever turning, blown on their path to wherever they'll end up, ceaseless in their journey.

They circle and spiral around a young woman and her two tiny dogs that frolic in the white wonderland that is my backyard.

***

There's an old man who comes into the bank every other day or so just to talk to me and he's weird. He can't help himself, I suppose, but he thinks he has all kinds of government secrets to sell and he fancies himself a source of knowledge. It's intriguing, in a way, to listen to him pontificate, but right now I'm tired of all of his crap and I want to work when I'm at work. What a strange sentiment.

Maybe I'll be like that some day, although I would hope not. I wonder what causes old men to get to that point where they just don't give a damn any more? I guess I shouldn't just say old men because it's not just men that do that, but it seems more previlent in old men when they talk about the way things were. Old women tend to dress oddly, with a wide variety of colors that shouldn't ever be matched together.