It snowed last night.

It's winter. It snows here all the time.

But each fresh morning, as sunlight pierces my house like a lightsaber, I pass these two in the dining room. The photo, from an old TV show, is the only thing I took with me to the next gig. Thirty years ago, this photo was already history.

Two stoic faces stare from yard snowdrifts, looking through decades of winters into mine. The photo haunts me. I tell myself the blue light in their upstairs window is Netflix. But it's not.

Their winter is unimaginable. 

And in the viewing, softens mine.