The Winter that Won’t Go Away
Mid April and a glacial ice storm rages outside. Spring sprang . . . and sprinted to sights unseen.
Magnificent oak and cherry trees should be budding, and colorful crocuses and tulips poking through the earth. Instead, layers of icy wetness shroud still slumbering nature and man-made dwellings like veils constructed of broadcloth.
Dense wintery rain ricochets like BB shots off structures encountered during the weighty descent . . . and lingers to enfold more of its own.
Like a femme fatale, the weather promises danger if warnings aren’t heeded. Tiny rhinestones of chilling ice hurt skin where they strike; below, they tease feet, causing them to slip and trip. Roads bear a pretty [hazardous] sheen. Not a day to be driving—anywhere. Nor a day to be walking—anywhere.
Still, in its own awe-inspiring way, the storm sustains breath-taking beauty. In its fierceness, it’s strangely soothing; in its relentlessness, oddly appeasing. Though not a time for being or creature to be outside, from within, it’s rather picture perfect.
