It is snowing in Bloomington, my son says.
It is Dave Brubeck in my cd player. Piano jazz. Snow. Dark beer. Walking on icy sidewalks. Fogged over eyeglasses. Vegetarian potlucks. Icicles. Parking meters. Crystal windshields. Frosty ears being cupped and warmed. Old hissing and clanking steam heat radiators. Boots leaving melted puddles on wood floors. Wish you were here.
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