Copi Vojta sends this winter dispatch from Colorado’s western slope:

The snow gently eases into the dissonant voice of an urban afternoon. Comforting like worn cork. Diesel engines down highways, trumped by the hollow push of Gore-Tex trudging through drifts. Clouds fall all over. The river mumbles its destination while Sex Dungeons and split shot crash seams and buttery soft under bellies slide back home. Fogged lenses distort flakes and fins into wandering shapes. Later, we slink away towards chores and non river-world obligations, counting paychecks in our sleep and next week as a return.