Driving O to school this morning, we pass through a swath of low cloud that hovers over the tiny local airport. A small plane waits on the runway, ready to push through to the blue above. The Olympic Mountains peak through their own white shawl. Driving down Highway 19, a two-lane road that feels nothing like a highway, Mt. Rainier rises straight ahead, between the pines lining the road. It feels as if we could drive up to the edge of the glacier-covered peak, despite the miles and the Puget Sound between us.
At school, we park by the barn and O. eagerly points out which of the strawberry blond chickens she has held. We cross the small frosty bridge to meet her classmates. Her head is wrapped in a wool balaclava that makes her look like a gnome bounding across the field.
Today is Three Kings Day. The day the wise ones come, to pay homage to the child. Because wise ones do pay homage to children. Through the nighttime fog of adulthood, we can travel back to a time when magic hid under every bridge.
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