Thirty Degrees

When I woke the lawn was rimed and the rooftops sported swaths of frost. It was afternoon. Portia woke me, eager to go out and inspect the altered world. But once allowed out, she stayed only briefly, displeased by the cold and wet. Later, the gray sky released more rain, and wind spattered it against the windows. Alger came to eat, and yowled and hissed and snarled at me as I filled his bowl, but ate nonetheless. Farah arrived later, and was equally displeased though less demonstrative. She merely yowled and let out a couple of growls. Neither of them rubbed my leg.

About the time the hidden sun was probably setting, a flock of geese flew overhead, barely soon enough.

The rain continued through gray dusk, but the sound gradually diminished. I don't remember when it fell silent. Some time later I noticed the quiet, and looked outside to see snow falling, and the street already white. An inch lies there, and more accumulates. So far the electricity remains on. The plow truck has not yet passed. I expect it to rumble by before morning, trying to stay ahead of whatever the storm brings. What it has brought me is the silence, and the glowing landscape even a sullen sky can't prevent. To me, snow's saving grace is that nocturnal brightness, and the quiet broken only by the occasional soft flomph that comes when some overburdened branch releases its white cache.