what may or may not be hard reality

A few hours ago I stood on an old stone bridge from 1750 or thereabout, watching as the fast-flowing muddy river ripped a huge thick block of ice into tiny shreds against the bridge pillars, making the 250-year-old stone bridge shudder beneath my feet with the impact. Across the dam above the bridge the still bare birch trees were reflected in the open waters, backlit by the soft pink sky of the newly set sun.

Now I'm sitting on a wood bench in a smelly locker room leaning against the brick wall, waiting for my father to finish his night race. Outside the cloudless sky is sucking all the warmth of the day out of the air, and brittle new ice is crunching on the edges of the small puddles.

Either way; suck it winter! Spring will crush you in the end.