The Doorway

It was february but felt like march, the kind of march where early crocuses might creep in and defy the threat of snow to come.  

 The air was thick with a cool drizzle and the sky the color of spilt milk.  Bits of gray snow squelched beneath our boots, melted into the grass and pooled on the sidewalk.  A dreary day, but hopeful as the rain not snow misted into our hair and our noses grew rosy from the chill.  

And, perhaps it was this sense of hope--a sense of potential unbidden and unlooked for--that caused us to look.  To look and see it.  The door.  The door in the tree in Deming park.  

It was an odd little door.  About a foot high, with a latch, nestled securely and hinged properly into what looked to be a tall maple.

To be continued...


Popular posts from this blog

Proper 21C, Rent Asunder

The Lost Found

20A, "There is nothing you can say or do..."