Durango woke up under eight inches of snow, the kind that swallows driveways and makes even locals grumble. I shoveled twice before lunch and still couldn’t see the pavement. Outside it was silent, crisp, white. Inside, the news blared with senators still arguing over masks, as if two years into a pandemic the question hadn’t been settled.
Meanwhile, Texas collapsed under its own mythology. Millions without power, pipes bursting, families freezing, leaders fleeing. Proof that deregulation and slogans can’t heat a house.
Here in Colorado, the snow will melt, the roads will clear, and the plows will keep working. In Washington, the hot air only piles higher, never shoveled, never cleared. One storm is manageable. The other is permanent.