Theoretically, happiness is a warm road on a snowy day.
No slick spots, no ice, not when the road is warm; just puddles, and people of fendered inclination fear no puddles because plastic or aluminum or steel divides the space between tire and body into waterslide and serenity.
Such a simple thing, a fender.
We also know that puddles are way too small to allow monsters in this area to escape. On a clear day, one might see what seems to be a sleepy eye under the surface, maybe a shudder of scales, but prairie monsters are firmly subterranean.
Another series of puddles ahead. No monsters to see on this gray day. Nonetheless, we observe.
One snowflake descends. Another, a clone of the first, rises. They align before colliding at the water’s calm surface. More snowflakes fall, rise, collide, and emit impossibly small particles of memory.
Memories: the fundamental building blocks of now and then, this and that, here and gone again.
We don’t remember who wrote that.
We continue to pedal past by the Large Grain Elevator Collider. Today’s observations are inconclusive. But one bit of data stands out.
No four snowflakes are alike.
April 20. 12.5 miles.