The poem of the air

"To face unafraid the plans that we made, 

walkin' in a winter wonderland."

This the first measurable snowfall in Seattle in two years.  From the cozy house I watched John scrape off Little Beep at 5:00 am and head off to work down the snowy deserted street.  I couldn't read his mind, but it might have been something along the lines of: retirement sounds pretty good right now.

Anyway, it won't stick around for long.  We'll have a high of 40 today with rain moving in.   

Snowflakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,

      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,

Over the woodlands brown and bare,

      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,

            Silent, and soft, and slow

            Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take

      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make

      In the white countenance confession,

            The troubled sky reveals

            The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,

      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;

This is the secret of despair,

      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,

            Now whispered and revealed

            To wood and field.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow