*Inspired by some Anglo-Saxon readings explored a few weeks ago.
The sky was unusually blue for December, the only vibrant pigment dyed into Minnesota's largely grey winter stitchwork. The lake's dull frozen top made for a mild, unpolished pewter sheen. This smooth, grey stuff spread between stalks stiff with frost and black trees that dotted Northfield's small park. The snow that covered the town's flat sanctuary had lost its fresh white sheen and had thawed and re-frozen into another dull grey.
The old man stuffed Prince Albert into his dark pipe. His fingers pinched the old tobacco that had begun to dry out. His one-two-three shake above the pouch to free loose weed back into the bag was burdened, as if the light, sweet leaves were shredded strips of lead.
The smoke was mild, fairly unscented with a weak taste. Its white spectre body would float but a few yards from the bench, then soon soaked into the greater winds of the place. The old man watched the few people who'd decided to brave the nipping temperatures. Two teens were bundled up in red, grey and plaid--ice fishing. Both would be Adam's age, the man thought, one of his twelve grandkids. There'd be no snow where Adam was. "Get's into the 60's on cool days," Adam's father would tell the man on the phone. The old man couldn't comprehend a place without winter. The ice-fishers soon left.
He thought of Janine and Ezra out east, and Eric far south in Mississippi. Just JoAnne and him now left in the Midwest, her in the frozen dirt, him in the frozen air. But the pipe's old bowl, worn with smoke around the top ridge, warmed his hand.
A young couple passed by. College students, he thought, from the way they dressed. Thick scarf wrapped around the wide necks of grey pea coats. The local kids who stuck around after high school wore hunting jackets, more likely. The young man looked towards the old man, smiled, and waved. Just cuz I'm an old local with a pipe, he thought, cuz no one smokes these things anymore--he thinks its quaint. He nodded his head to the boy. The old man watched the brightly colored scarves shrink and disappear over the hill. And he nodded off to sleep.
When he came to, the pipe sat cold in his hand, only half of the tobacco burnt up. He thought of relighting, but noticed the setting sun. The right side of the pipe had terrible bubbling under the lacquer--a hole was forming in the bowl's wall. Ash fell between his legs, and then stale, unburnt tobacco, both resting lightly on the snow. On the walk home, the man saw a brightly colored bird. It flitted from one tree to another on the opposite side of the path and quickly disappeared inside of the black trunk--but a brief second's arc through the sky.
