Today I try, again, to teach my students how to show instead of tell. How to make a mood with words. It's hard for everybody, I say. But this is what we're here to try to do. I have no idea what we are really here to do, but I say this to them. I go looking for images because I don't know how else to remind myself about writing and being awake and mattering. Crumpled cars litter the highway this morning. Drivers stumble around outside of their cars and they aren't supposed to be there. I think about how the snow isn't supposed to slow things down here but it does. Watch how slow we move past the wreckage pretending not to look. Everyone looks. I could show you my mood but I don't know how to name it. I want to pretend it doesn't exist. The dogs and I walk the path between the soccer field and the cemetery. A fine layer of snow covers both expanses and there's the sun dropping behind the mountains after only half a day of coming out. Geese hover over the field. A lone bird veers off or is it a drone? A woman stuffs little pieces of tissue into her nostrils and they turn red immediately. She sits on the Calvary Baptist Church's stone sign and I ask if she's alright but we don't really slow down either. A man loads discarded metal and machinery onto his teal Chevy pickup. The nosebleed woman was white and the truck man was brown. Why do white writers avoid such naming? It's hard for everybody, I decide. Which is not good enough but also true.