The snow from earlier in the week has settled into a thin crust, half-melted along the curbs and pushed against the sidewalks in dull gray ridges. The city crews have cleared most of Main Avenue, but the alleys still carry uneven patches of ice. I walked carefully this morning, my steps leaving faint echoes against the walls before the sound vanished into the air.
Durango feels suspended this week—neither deep winter nor holiday. The decorations are already up, but the lights come on too early in the afternoon, as if the town itself doubts the sun’s return. Even the traffic seems muted. People move slowly, bundled and inward, conserving words, keeping their errands brief. The hush has its own rhythm, a kind of truce between movement and rest.
Inside the gallery, the radiators ticked and the faint smell of dust burned off the coils. I kept the front lights low to let the pieces breathe in the natural light that filtered through the window. Mid-morning brought a pair of visitors from Pagosa Springs who had stopped on their way to see family. They spoke about the road conditions more than the art—patchy ice, wind across the passes, the kind of travel that keeps you alert without ever quite afraid.
The sky had turned flat, colorless, without the warmth of cloud or the promise of snow. In that stillness, everything felt heavier: the air, the light, even the sound of my own breath.
By closing time, the ice in the alley had glazed over again, reflecting the yellow of the streetlamps in small fractured pools. I locked the door, pulled my scarf tight, and waited for the cold to reach that familiar edge where it becomes something clean—unforgiving, but honest.