21 Days From My Window
Outside my window this cold morning, I see great white trucks with huge bucket arms. Three of them stand rumbling along the curb. In the yard beside them, a dozen or more burly bearded men in brown coveralls and white hardhats gather around a giant with a clipboard. Soon they begin to march past my window, their faces grim and determined.
I sit quietly inside, watching these unlikely but longed for heroes go about their work. I pull my blanket closer around my shoulders, and peer through the cold window pane at the morning outside. Great boots have tracked through the snow just below my windowsill, and muddy brown footprints remain to mark the truth we’ve been hoping for these past, dark days. The icy storm stole our electric power. And inside our homes, we’ve waited, with warm blankets piled high, and flashlights or candles flickering.
But today, through the glass pane, is the evidence of our hope. Great burly heroes are on the job, and very soon, we will have power again. I shiver with the cold morning air, and a happy anticipation as I leave my seat by the window and return to one near the fire.
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