shriven

Mornings are cold again. Reed Lake reflects the branches of bigleaf maple against the waking sky, and gives us pause. We all know the rain is coming, that the three days of grey that visited President John Kroger’s inaugural manger came not bearing gifts, but warnings.

Already, the fifth week of classes has ended, leaving but two more before Fall Break. Time, we think, is a burning log. Gone quickly, it throws off enough heat to sustain us, leaving ashes on the floor, ashes which must be either ignored or dealt with. Most of us are too busy during the year to find a use for it, so it collects in buckets near our doors, waiting for attention, catching our eye when we leave in the morning and when we return from the street-lit gloom.

When the grey of the accumulating ashes is reflected in the sky, the rain will come, and the inaugural prophecy will be realized. Kroger will receive his baptism with the rest of the freshmen, despite his tacit refusal to write Hum papers with them, and the college will enter its hundred-and-first year.