Last night while I lay bundled and warm in my bed the flakes began to fall. Fat, peaceful flakes. Softly lit by the street lamps they swirled and twirled to the earth, dusting rooftops and tree limbs with their magic, quieting the air, lulling the world into a deep winter sleep.
In the afternoon turned quiet I padded around the house in thick sweat pants, fluffing up the corners of my nest, watching the ground slowly disappear under a thick dusting of sugar. I simmered a pot of soup and brought out the heavy boots from storage while The Holbs shoveled the driveway snow.
The dogs ran, biting mouthfuls of snow. Their barks echoing against the snowy sky, they chased and chased until blissfully exhausted, panting and shivering under the wet snow clinging to their fur.
In the night I crank on the heaters, light all the candles, pull out the blankets, turn on the Christmas music. Some knitting and some football and some cold toes in warm socks, and a Monday looming with nowhere to be but in this house, under the influence of snow on snow on snow.
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