Not much to say except that I wish I could curl up small like a cat into my armchair and dream away the snowy hours until spring.
(Cats are eminently sensible beings, knowing what cannot be mended must be endured. Naps? A way of life.)
For it still snows, still it snows—such a long, grey dream of winter it seems timeless, mythic.
Not a winter but The Winter, whom the migrating birds battle for survival while we look on, numbed, through our dreary windows.
I feel like a child in the back seat of the car during a long drive (five months, heading into six) asking, when will we be there? We passed the signpost for spring weeks ago without seeming to arrive.
As flakes fall, the crows tear past the windows on their crow missions. Unlike some, they waste no time moping.
I am not sleepy, though very dull. I shall make a bowl of popcorn and crawl under a cozy blanket.
A proper if not very imaginative response to realities such as snow in April.
Then this morning, this fairy frosting as the sun took mercy and showed his shining face:
Goodbye, beautiful borealis, I believe your day is done for now.