Snow

It is snowing.
It is snowing and I have already gone up to the park with the boy for massive sledding excursion. Hurtling downhill screaming, then rolling downhill laughing, then stopping, moving arms and legs back and forth to make angels. 
It is snowing and I have dragged said boy on said sled through piles of fresh powder across the baseball fields and past the band shell watching as the wind pulls small white dust into little tornadoes that I tell myself are made of some ancient magic crafted by a sorcerer who lives in these lands.
It is snowing and we have warmed our insides with hot cocoa thickened with whipped cream.
It is snowing and there was a valiant snowball fight in the tiny front yard that is usually just a slab of city-fied cement but today is a wonderland.
It is snowing and there was ice down my back and on my face and speckled across my glasses till I couldn’t tell where the snow ended and I began. 
It is snowing and I am home now, with a kitty purring beside me, demanding affection and the guaranteed warmth of that spot just under my computer beside my leg. 
It is snowing and there is the kitty and the warmth and a book to read.
It is snowing and it is good.

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