By Erika Kar
Here I sit, brokenhearted. Tried to write, but can’t get started.
Mazama is a quiet spot, not much happens, I kid you not.
When Sunday comes, as it always does, a column comes due and my head starts to buzz.
I poke around, looking for news, when there is none, I then get the blues.
I harass my kids, I harass the store, I send some emails, I go out the door.
I hike around looking for crime, I seek out moose, I take my time.
Alas, alas, nothing shows up, the tracks in the snow only belong to my pup.
There was some crime, but I’m not allowed to say, the criminals are now gone, they have gone on their way.
What to write? What to write? My cursor blink blinks. Sometimes living in solitude, well, really stinks.
That’s not true, in all actuality; we must mostly like it or at least the locality.
So here’s something that happened in this last week; the pass closed on up, keeping with the November streak.
Some of us like it, some of us don’t, if you were making a quick trip over? Well, now you won’t.
Traffic slows down, there’s no line at the store, at least until more snow hits the valley floor.
And then, as you know, we become inundated with all types of people, some that appear constipated.
I give my apologies for sounding so crude, but sometimes these rhymes can hide and allude.
So, my dear Mazamans, in this quiet time, let us seek the sublime.
While nothing much happens, at least that is apparent, let us revel in the nothingness, in the quiet inherent.
For soon enough, more snow will arrive, the skiers will come; the businesses will thrive.
Our quiet will leave, whether you rejoice or grieve, and sounds of snowmobiles will fill the air, as is some people’s pet peeve.
I try to remain neutral in most of these things because before you know it, it will soon be spring.
March will arrive, and once again, it will be quiet and I’ll have nothing to pen.
