|It's better to be inside.|
Nothing left but the afterglow. Wise men tell us the days are getting longer. The snow has come to rest on the flimsiest of branches. When the northern zephyrs move, the snow falls again. Sometimes over roadways the traffic kicks up a dragon cloud of salt, which may fall again like a demon soul of fine prismatic crystals which leave a residue on your windshield, so I think there is something inimical involved. There is no magic better than hot cocoa and warm clothes, feet up on the hassock. Out there is desperation and the tracks of tiny feet. The wind picks up. The snow drops off the branches in sudden scatters. Blue sky, bright snow a foot deep. It is 12 degrees, F-f-f-fahrenheit.