I cup my long fingers around the bowl and sip cereal flavored milk. It is very late and my body is being pulled toward the bedroom, but my eyes are transfixed on the fantastic show outside of our dining room window.
As I slurp, my eyes dart over the bowl's lid and wonder at the three inches of snow sitting on a nearby electric wire. They follow the wire to poles and more wires; watch the snow fall down hard, each flake searching for a resting place - a home - a place to melt - a place to live and die. Some flakes sit atop each other on rooftops, window sills, cars and trucks, chain fences, swing sets; some dive for the streets and sidewalks and become footprints and tire marks almost instantly.
I am finished with my milk, yawning like a full kitten, but I can't stop staring out the window. The sky is lavender gray - the street light across from our building spotlighting the whole magical scene - providing light for me to write in a dark room - giving shimmer to our freshly blanketed neighborhood. Smoke puffs out of the chimney across from me and I wonder who chops their wood - where they get it.
The only things that would make this better - this sitting in a dark room, staring at a snowstorm, and wondering if anyone is staring back at me - would be a fireplace, an afghan, and my lover.
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