This wonderful piece by Indira Ganeson…says it all.
Last night the trees were covered in such white snow, that it felt like I chanced upon a fantasy, a world like Narnia, say.
It is Neptune’s blizzard now, shaking yesterday’s snow off the limbs, scattering the snow sideways.
My neighbor’s shingled wall looks like it’s dusted with powdered sugar. The power comes and goes, like the women
and Michelangelo, and the wind howls and howls. Blizzards in the daytime are of course easier to take than at night,
when the snow offers serenity in moments of quiet. The cats are curled up, asleep, in separate corners; they have
been antsy with
each other, picking fights, and I blame the lack of fresh air ( drafts don’t count.)
But of course, drafts do count, and my novel is a mess, as I rethink so much of the dialogue ( needed?) and action
( necessary?). Piles of essays and stories and other…
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