A Storyby William Kittredge
Huge flakes floating between evergreens, pine and fir, the larch that dropped their yellow needles in November. The storm was dying and twilight was going bluish. The Super Bowl was winding down. A Redskin fan with his bare chest and face painted in swirls of luminous red was hooting and dancing on the TV screen. Billy French shut it down, and fed hearts of seasoned split wood into his Swedish stove.
A three-quarter moon lingered among the clouds. So this is how it was for Kenny Locke, lighted by an orange moon, this simple?