That's the title of a Rod MacDonald song I love. Well, I love listening to him sing it in the summer anyway, not when the snow has actually made its way to us. We've missed most of the horrible storms of this season, until now. I cannot see the street because of the snow piled on the branches of the tree in front of my office window. I can't hear the sounds of traffic either, maybe because every school within twenty miles is closed.
I actually like the hush this kind of snow brings with it, and am thankful that I can remain in my pjs and sit here typing words no one reads. Didn't have to shovel and hubby walked the mutt this morning. Didn't even open the door to wave goodbye to them. I'm hunkered down over this laptop trying to edit the poetry manuscript I finished yesterday. My deadline is Friday. I have today to find all those words I am absolutely certain are spelled correctly that the very first person who picks the book up finds at first glance.
Editing is not what I like to do. I'd rather be wrestling with my words, rearranging them on that computer screen until they fit right, not staring at those crisp, white sheets of paper until every word seems wrong. Yesterday I grabbed the dictionary to check on "jump" after staring at it way too long.
I'd much rather sit here and look at the snow today, get tangled up in it, write poems about the way it's so softly layered on the tree branches, how it keeps falling, falling, falling, how my early morning silence is lulling me back to sleep, and when I peek outside, I see a field of white, except for the cherry red ski cap the Iraqi girl wears. She's waiting at the bus stop in her usual spot. She is new to the neighborhood, new here period. Perhaps no one has explained "snow days" to her. I'm getting my boots on.
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