Last night's snow was a spring snow, not the glittery snow of the frigid night of winter but the soft, wet snow of a spring. It was a philosopher's snow, a snow for wandering and pondering. It sifted through the silent night, sliding onto the earth at an angle so slight that it seemed some tilt of the universe had charted its course. In the windless night, the snow lay, undisturbed, where it fell on the tops of posts and clinging to each bare branch. I, cloistered by the white air and serene in the silence, surveyed this sanctuary and fell into contemplation.
This morning, the snow is perfect for snowballs and snowmen. The neighborhood is deserted; the children have gone to school, their parents have gone to work and I am left to my own devices. Four dogs respond to my call. I can tell they've been trailing something. Each nose is covered with snow. They are anxious to get back to their pleasures but they stand alert as I dip into the snow and pack it between my palms. They watch me draw back the snowball and they gauge the direction it will fly. With the pitch, they are off and running. For some few minutes, they are a scrambling mass. They chase and ground snowballs, they catch snowballs. Snowballs are wonderful. And, they're edible. Not one, retrieved, reached my hand.
