Blunderbuss

I was hoping for a Hotspur of a blizzard; but no.  This one's Falstaff in the laundry basket, humped, heaped, and untidily bundled.  There's a large bluff wind, booming shapelessly.  The sky is sizzling with ice; the trees are hurling down clods, like a bombardment in a squirrels' war.  The snow is all pocky.  It's a bust.

On the up side, I don't think this will blight the fruit trees.  Last year, there were no peaches in New England—no stone fruit at all—and the apples were stunted.  Frost-kill.

I loved those small apples though—the perfect size, like pippins

Nine