Night of the Plows

I read a short story once that was set in L.A. and the main character was haunted by the continuous sound of helicopters flying past his apartment (anybody out there remember the name of that story? Author?). If that story was set in St. Paul, in the December of 2010, the haunting sound would actually be that of snowplows, huge, earth shuddering plows, blowing past my street in teams of two, with occasional tow truck zooming in their wake looking to feed on the snowplow's extra krill. So far they've blown down my street in two sweeps tonight, really kicking ass, and they make me proud of the fine state of Minnesota every time I watch them go by. They do one side of the street, then the other. They're plowing their way to a better future for all of us.

I'm also drinking and watching Ingmar Bergman's strange 1958 film The Magician. Is it just me, or is Bergman into death a little?