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The thermometer outside my kitchen
window claims the air today is freezing
cold. But the sun beams down from a
nearly cloudless sky and causes sheets
of accumulated snow, thick as a fluffed
feather comforter, to slide slowly down
the shingled roof of my stone-clad home.
Gazing out my bedroom window at noon,
I am put in mind of the prophetic growl of
Barry McGuire some four decades ago,
when he warned over and over and over
again, my friend, that we are on the
eaves of destruction. Though I joke
today (with cheap word-play), I do not
mean to say that the man was by any
means overly alarmist in his predictions
of doom. Underly alarmist is the icy truth.
♦
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