Snow Eggs

It’s the end of February and winter has yet to begin. As much as I don’t miss my annual mid-winter biorhythmic slump and concomitant bronchitis, I do miss the pounding winds, the snow flying horizontally over the ridge and the buckets of dreary rain that keep me huddled by the stove where, since not much else can be accomplished, I read and read and read. Following my family’s work ethic, I always feel guilty reading if the sun is shining and there’s an opportunity to make hay.

We did have a tiny snow storm about a week ago and I was grateful for this smallest demonstration of winter weather. But that’s all it was, a sampler of sleet, hail, popcorn snow, big fat, wet flakes scudding on the wind, and finally, a brief flurry of powder that blanketed the rest. All too soon this little tour de force of the weather gods was over and they lost interest and went off to play golf. Or maybe up to Alaska to visit the site of their particular interest or animus, this winter. There, people are isolated, roofs are collapsing and roads are too blocked for rescue vehicles to respond. I won’t say that I’m envious of such disaster but a little sharing wouldn’t hurt. We’ll take any flake of snow the Alaskans don’t want.

In my post-storm rambles, I discovered that the snow had left an interesting signature – little clutches of icy round snow eggs, cupped in half-rotted autumn leaves or tucked into mossy hollows. As I wandered, I had to unzip my down vest and untie my scarf. It’s not quite time to dig out sandals but definitely time to shed the vest that tops the sweater that goes over the cotton turtleneck. Still, I’m putting the energy of my optimism into those little snow eggs. In March, maybe they’ll hatch.