Six inches and falling: puff of ice punctuating weekends - detaining us to warmer climes. A french press to myself, runny yolks and toast is better self-made when the wind is seen through a veil of dusty snow.
Be quiet, now, to hear the fullness of silence.
Though bells will ring
church steeples were catchin' fire
If you promise spring
Then I'll know you are a liar
Cause in the spring
Tender grasses won't burn easily
Tough thrushes sing
Still my lover won't return to me
"Souverian," Andrew Bird