Said They, On A Saturday

Walking to my truck on damp feet under a dying twilight I listened to a plow scrape by.

Earlier, I had stepped in their footsteps, stopping at huddled hoods, snow-pants, and laughter filled with cinnamon crumbs. Crouched around a box of doughnuts were children in the snow -- sugar on their lips and their sleds' curving lines on the church slope behind them.

Hey, I said.

Hey, said they.

I am from the newspaper. Feel like a photo?

Strawberry sprinkles surged in their hearts.

I snapped and flashed and they were ready to tell me their names.

Hang on, I have to get my ... what is that thing? I returned with my notebook.

I stepped in their footsteps again, just like a kid worried about nothing more than hot chocolate with marshmallows on a Saturday afternoon.

The kids -- a cluster of Americana in the snow -- whispered as I walked away. We are going to be in the newspaper! said they.

Later, I sat in the doughnut shop thinking about spring, which makes me as happy as coffee after a lingering, bright-colored dream.

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He stutters, but not every time.

He used to visit the bar on Fridays with his rum-n-coke girlfriend. He'd blink hard a few times and stammer over vowels. Lime please, he would say.

He came in alone this week, staring at the taps and trying to form words for his beer. This must be something he wants to do. In the past his date could have said, Blue Point Winter Ale!

But standing there alone in a long winter coat with frustrated fingers tightening around money in his hand, he said, let's see. His whole body relaxed, then bent with the effort to pronounce a beer, and relaxed again as he said, let's see. OK. So, ok, let's see.

With a deep breath and his head tilted back, he said in a burst, Smuttynose!

From the far-left tap I poured a Smuttynose brown ale. Can I help him with this? Can I ask him that? The guy puts himself through hell just for a beer.

Don't we all?

I am cold in the heart of winter's frozen January, and adrift.