As everyone in the region is bound to tell you, it's snowing, quite a lot. There's slush and everything. Even the natives are letting me know that this is unusual and odd and plenty of other synonyms, and I'm taking a moment to be mystical and wonder what kind of portent this would be.
On the one hand, snow is pure, clean, white. It's drifting from above in laziness--no blasts stinging the eyes today. It's innocent and fun, propelling gleeful snowfights and creative efforts that range from the homey to the impudent (there has been more than one snowman on campus impaled by sticks or screaming in silent terror).
On the other hand, snow this early has taken the place of Indian summer--the last wistful remains of vacation freedom and lolling about on the grass. It also is fairly deceitful: there are at least five people this morning who have referenced Christmas. First snow points to the ending of a semester, to the release of going home--that's not for two months.
Or I could just throw out the whole concepts of portents, and settle myself back to enjoy the snow that dusts my shoulders and shoes.
I like the last option the best.
Morning Thanks--what Luther discovered
15 hours ago