Out back, the wind blows. I swear I live on the windiest street in the city. All the condos create a concrete canyon through which the wind blasts. Out back, it snows. Last night it was soft fluffy snow. This morning it’s a dry, powdery snow; and last night’s snow has hardened. It’s crisp. The white floor crunches, compacts, squawks as I step through it. Wind blows snow like dust across the top, across the tiny waves, like fingerprints. I love these tiny waves in snow. I love the way snow drifts. I used to live in the country and I would wander farmland just to watch the way the snow lived.

But I’m not as tough as I was then. And I’m cold. Murph loves the snow. And it has to be drastically cold for her to even begin to notice. Mostly she gallops and jumps around like normal. The only difference: once in a while she dives into a snow wave and gulps at the snow. I wish she minded the cold a little more, actually. Just a little more. She doesn’t understand my hurry. She looks at me, head crooked, baffled and impatient when I move to go back inside. “But I’m having so much fun”.

Her fun is my fun. But it’s so buggery cold. On the plus side, it’s easier to clean up after her. First, it’s much easier to find. And second, it seems cleaner, grabbing a handful of snow at the same time.

SS