Now that snow is back, we can be ourselves again. Even the morning rush-hour dusting we got the other day reminded us that God is in heaven and all’s right with the world. We cursed the cautious drivers among us even as we slid toward the lake on smooth summer tires. We reveled in complaining about the idiotic – was he from Florida? – motorist whose cluelessness froze up the Blatnik. And, oh it was such a roundabout slowpoke commute over to the Bong and back to the big city. We were so happy.
We saw women in pastel scarves and bearded men in their grungy knit caps pulled down to snowflake-moistened eyebrows. Our boots left tracks once more and so did deer hooves. Coffee tasted richer. Cross country skiers could chortle about reclaiming the golf courses for their own playground. Where’s that sparkplug wrench for the snowblower?
But the white roofs turned back to black, the snow on the lawn evaporated. Green clings to plants on the patio, near the house. Birches still harbor leaves with tight grips. Public water fountains have been dry for weeks, but you can see more steam rising from sewer grates, a few extra faces pressed to the window of passing buses. Most pumpkins are orange slick spots in the alley, stolen and smashed, covered by snow, then uncovered.
We await the flooded ice rink, the bumping scrape of plow on asphalt, the snarl of power sleds in the ditches. Colored lights will blink to life on the city tree this week.
I’m fretting, ‘bout a brown, Christmas,
Just like the one we had last year. . . . .