Last night, Ron and I took a walk in the unseasonably warm air. The snow is almost gone, the sky clear and dark. Down by the calm river, the plywood mill was lit up, much like a Christmas tree, and reflected in the dark surface like glass.
“See?” I nudged Ron with my arm, for my hands were in my pockets, “I wish I’d brought my camera. I always see a good shot when I leave it home.”
He murmured agreement.
We wandered on a bit more in companiable silence, until in the light traffic a tow truck stopped to turn into the driveway just ahead of us.
On top of the large tow truck, right on top of the cab, a teeny weeny Volkswagon bug was nicely settled.
I cracked right up. Ron chuckled. “I see what you mean,” he said.
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