When I woke this morning, it was to the sound of a motor of some kind outside my bedroom window. "Oh no!" my sleepy brain cried. "Snowplow!"
And without opening my eyes or my curtains, I could see it: one of my lane-bound neighbours pushing their heavy snowplow up and down our long, steep driveway, the snow flying up and over everything in a great white plume. And I sighed, for it is November after all, and I knew it would come sometime.
Yet when I rose, it was to discover a world covered only with crunchy brown leaves, and that the sound I heard was an enthusiastic leaf blower.
So imagine my surprise when I paused from writing away at my newest story-in-progress to find that the snow had come while I wasn't paying attention. All afternoon it's drifted down and stayed, soft and tiny white flakes that are hiding the leaves, hiding the lane, hiding the deck behind a thin blanket. It's still coming down, thin and fine as powdered sugar.
It's beautiful, and I'm freezing.