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Winter has been tame here, polar vortexes directed toward flyover country and parts east. I make no moral observation but in quiet moments allow myself reminiscence without return. It’s new and not bad.

After a week of bright sun and polar lows in the teens, some snow comes on the warm tail of cold’s departure. Enough to make Saturday night glow in the sodium light and clear out the streets, enough to cause delight without panic. Even a week of teens doesn’t have the ground cold enough to make the stuff stick, only pile up and give us the puffy silence and glow through the windows.



Adults who have no love of snow are not trustworthy. I allow no exceptions or addendums: their inner child is lost, or beaten down. Snow is the most approachable and banal sort of magic, but magic it is. Touch it, smell it, taste it–all its textures and qualities calling out to first grade science class. Snow is not mysterious at all. That’s why kids like it so much.

Home of snow

Home of snow

Snow does not last. This night of its pink and bluewhite shining is the only night we’ll get. The snow falls but only for now, just like when you were a kid, just like always. Even where it is common I hold it is a gift. Pull a blanket around you, look out the window, and listen. Snow falls but does not fail.



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