a CITIZEN JOURNALIST rises early (for him) to view Obama’s America in the fresh light of morn
6:48 AM Mountain Time: The sun is out, the grass is still glazed over from the sprinklers — creating a very tranquil deep green sheen — and the sky is clear and azure blue. As I sip coffee from my perch on the a small wooden stool I keep on my front porch, I watch a few swallows dart silently by then loop around the trees in the front yard. The neighborhood is still quiet save for a few melodic chirps and the hypnotic, rotating whir of faraway automated watering systems, with nary a car engine grumbling to life, and not a human voice to be heard.
But I’m not buying it.
At some point, a big storm is coming. A massive national baptism. Plus, I’m pretty sure I smell the faint combination of Scrapple, armpit, and destitution — though there’s a slight chance that may be coming from me. Either way, though: objective correlative. Even if it is only a fortuitous accident based on my own lapse in hygiene and recent professional performance.
Trust me, I can feel it in my gut. Which is where every good investigative piece begins.