call of the ambrose

On that blue-hued Tuesday, so soon after the faint reverberations of Dr. King's voice trembled once more through the air -- alas, getting fainter with each year like the echoes of democracy itself -- I found myself in an alien landscape anew. The cold stretches of tabula rasa made manifest in blizzard, ice, wind. And yet, as I struggled to make a path, to sojourn across the open plains, I had but one thought: all this snow makes finding poo all too easy. Thanks, Mother Nature.