At my new home, it is snowing lightly but constantly—warm enough to pack together but not so warm as to prevent accumulation. There is a street lamp outside my third-story window, emitting just enough to showcase the passing flakes that invisible above the light and pass into the night shortly thereafter.
The train is going by as I write this. Quietly, about to stop, and thankfully without squeaky breaks.
I have yammered on in the past about my idea of seasons—one ought to find just enough to both love and loathe about all four so that you welcome their coming and can deal sanely with their passing. Winter, naturally, most often needs a reinforcement of positives, and I thought of one the other day:
Winter is the only season when you don't mind the fact that time seems to speed up as you get older. Let time accelerate. Whatever it takes to get through the dirty, leftover snow, past Valentine's Day and into an April of longer and warmer days.