I sit alone on the front porch of my house in the 23 degree weather. Surrounding me are little white dots racing one another to the thick blanket on the ground. The blanket is untouched, not a footprint, tire mark, or animal track to be seen, for this snow is new. All the trees are covered, too, forcing them to sag closer to the ground. A single dark orange leaf dangles from a maple tree on the side of the lawn, the only evidence that fall has been here recently. It holds on to the tree, not wanting to accept the fact that it’s now winter. I watch it struggle to stay attached, until it finally gives up and glides to the snow bed below.
I wonder what it’s like living near the equator, where the temperature never shies below 70 degrees. Snow is a complete stranger to the dry, sandy grounds there.
I am thankful that I am lucky enough to live in a place where snow is definitely no stranger, but a friend that visits us every year.