It snowed, it snowed, it snowed.

Murphy jumps around enthusiastically. She gallops through the snow and sniffs at it and in it, and comes up, like an addict, with white on her nose. The tree branches are dusted white and thick on their tops and look much less skeletal than yesterday. On just one side, the south side, each tree has a stripe of white, of white as white as confectioner’s sugar.

It is not quite dawn. I have been up all night digging nicks into Time. The sky in the east is a haze of pink and grey. And nobody is up; or at least nobody is out but me and my dog.

The earth and the snow and the haze swallow everything up. Sound and worry and trampling time, in all their ugly colors, covered over in soft, heavy, thick, brilliant white.

But it is warming up and the rain will come soon.

SS