It's snowing. Finally, the forecasters were right. Tiny, shimmering flakes are being whipped through the air nearly horizontally. Nashville has gone mad, of course. Everyone's driving like normal, which is to say too fast for good conditions. Cars are bonking into the gutters, each other, sliding into intersections. I can't watch. I'm hiding inside with my cats, who are vastly entertained, and the dog, who wants nothing more than to be out there biting the snow and playing with the stupid motorists.
Now, you understand, I'm not talking heavy snowfall. There's approximately three inches on the ground, just enough to blanket the lawns with a soft beauty and veil each black, bare branch with a delicate mantle of silver-white. Later, when the mad motorists have skittered and slid to their destinations, I'm going out for a walk even though the wind is fierce and bitter. My dog will romp and shove her snout through the drifts, and the birds will be hugely fluffed up as they sit on the fences and trees, and I'll find virgin snow to tramp through, imagining I'm an intrepid explorer in the heart of winter.