It's Saturday, January 24 and we're on the run from Fayetteville bound for Albuquerque . A huge ice storm is coming and we of the eastern broken trees understand too well what that could mean.

My brother Frank and his family travel often from their home in Albuquerque to their recently acquired farm outside Tulsa. A year ago, when I was here, they left early to begin their 12 hour drive back because they knew a big storm was approaching. That one caused major damage and power outages, rendering most of the gas pumps in a large area useless.

I'd been leaving Frank messages since Fayetteville; he called me as I waited in line at MacDonald's on the Turner Turnpike in Stroud, Oklahoma where we've stopped for the night. He tells me they're traveling back from Tulsa far ahead of us. They beat the last storm, as they will this one. Frank confirms reports of how bad this storm is expected to be. The question is, if we rise early and speed toward Oklahoma City and steadily beyond, will we evade the treacherous weather?

We'd left Jeanie and Bob after sharing the wonderful breakfast they made—suddenly it was our last time with them, cutting short our planned relaxed stay. We packed up with due urgency and hit the road. The jolt of sadness from leaving so abruptly filters through the joy of our meeting and settles in its small place where my gratitude and warm memories will soon overshadow it.

We are warm and full, with the tv, the dogs walked, hot water and a flushing toilet, a good book waiting—everything comfortable in this moment. To end a gray day, the setting sun for seconds marked the wall with gold; there was a pleasant slice of light on the horizon and cars and trucks rushed toward it. Now here we are until early morning. Knowing how tiny we are, how small the circumference of our control.