After having bobsledded my way home through the hills white-knuckled through every intersection and sweating on every slippery slope, and then having to go out again (over different hills but no less treacherous) because I was out of dogfood, I am finally home.
I am now gazing soulfully out at the delicate white tracery outlining every oak limb and twig to utter perfection, and listening to the perfect stillness (only occasionally disturbed by the grinding of a steel plow blade and diesel engine) and watching old puppy-footprints soften and fade under the soft rounding of the new snow.
Perfect. It's perfect. It's like a jewel, like a snowflake in supersize. Every curve of the ground is graceful and elegant, every branch is a glistening treasure.
I know the elves prefer greenery, with no winter. And I'll be glad to greet the golden crocuses--Elanor!-- and snowdrops--Niphredil!--, late though they are this year! But I love the bare branches, and when they are wrapped with snow, they are lovelier still.
For the glory of this moment, I can ignore the ice-dam in the garage rear-gutter.
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...down to the water to see the elves dance and sing upon the midsummer's eve.
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