Passed

[rejectomorph]

Early this morning I saw the branches and twigs of the oaks across the street white with rime. No other trees bore any trace of frost, though all the rooftops were white. It was as though the storm had ended ten feet above the ground. By afternoon, there was no visible evidence of the storm remaining but the dampness of the ground and the gradually dissolving clouds. There will surely be no snow now. The white azaleas blooming by the fence, on the patch of ground warmed by the neighbors' leach lines, have survived the cold air and are now the only trace of white in the landscape. I half expected them to melt in the bright afternoon sunlight. Evening was all rosy reflected glow and, though dusk brought no returning song of crickets or frogs, the air was softer than I had expected it to be and the emerging stars did not bring to mind thoughts of ice. Winter's brief assertion recedes, and the lengthened evening bends toward spring. I am in expectation of soon being deprived of sleep by robins, and thus the deep quiet of this February night calls for my attention. It's likely the closest I will get this year to the silence of a snowbound world.