Snowfall
It’s been warm where I live recently. Somewhere between 40 and 50 degrees, on average.
I’ve hung the seven-pound wool topcoat back in the closet and have been enjoying the comparative weight of the black cotton trenchcoat — like taking off roller skates.
And right now it’s snowing, which wouldn’t seem unusual for February in New Hampster, except that it’s been blissfully, unseasonably warm for the past two weeks.
Big honking clumps of snow — about a third of an inch acoss, on average — are falling with some speed.
I’m not a big fan of snow — and less of a fan of driving in it, so this all better be gone by Friday — but I stood and took stock of it, and it fell around me outside the office.
What I adore about snow is how it messes with your sense of space. There are so many layers of depth as one looks out across a field or any expanse, and the micromuscles of the eye go nuts trying to focus on so many distances as your eye is subtly attracted to movement, but there is movement as far as it can see.
And it stops you from being able to tell how far away anything is, and it stops you in your tracks. And I love that sensation. I may hate snow, but I love snowfall.
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