February 1st. I have endured January. Snow begins to fall earlier than forecasted, yet a big storm or a little storm is expected. Run to the supermarket.
A black cat walks along plowed streets next to white canyon drifts. Neighbors park cars at the end of driveways. A small line of white accumulation on black power lines.
A gossamer triangle of white ramparts the deck railing.
The snow is starting at 6pm, the Super Bowl at 6:30pm. I expect to be awoken by the grind of metal plows against asphalt in the wee hours. I relish the sound of humanity in the darkness.
Tomorrow is Groundhog Day and if all goes according to plan the storm will osbsure shadows. In winter, I cling to folklore.