First snow on the tip of the Cape. Tiny stars of flakes that have grown larger in the half hour I’ve been watching them, drifting in a dance of their own. No wonder Tchaikovsky composed the Nutcracker, because the snow today is a child-like ballet, full of quiet wonder that captivates as it builds to scene after scene. The snow remains delicate, twirling–a most extraordinary snow or am I watching drift?
No, having stepped out, like an explorer on her suburban terrace, I confirm the weather: snow, as verb, active.
It is grainy, not the texture I remember from Boulder where the flakes were enormous, and signaled storm more than scatter. Here, I think of ice, but that is because I think of car, and the roads here that seem like San Francisco’s (sort of, because as a friend from Cali once said, oh, people on the East Coast always refer to hills as mountains.) I think of ice only in anticipation of tomorrow, but not being in Colorado, but seaside, I should probably not anticipate. In general, anticipatory worry is good to put aside.
Dance. Snow. Small flakes. Season of lights, sugar plums, winter naps.