Just now I've been sitting in my study with a cup of good strong coffee and the cedar incense sweet Maxwell gave me for Christmas, reading about the white-tailed ptarmigan:
It virtually vanishes into its snowbound habitat on the timberline. White on white: snow-white against snow, fog-white against winter fog and clouds as it flies in long, skipping glides like a flat stone scaled across water.
Cortelyou Road, where the trolley once ran, is right outside my window, and here come the men from my local firehouse, in full gear, holding on to the back bumper of a slow-moving SUV. One by one they fall off and collapse onto the snowy road in paroxysms of delight, these firemen in an hour without fire, restored to boys.
Snow day. Forget Monday's sludge—it doesn't exist. If you put on your
mittens and head to the park right now, a
stranger neighbor will almost
certainly let you take a turn on their sled. You bring the cocoa.