Snow, Connections and Ninevah

I still find considerable joy in looking up into a sky full of drifting, gently falling flakes of snow, choosing one and tracking it down to the ground. Or catching a snowflake on my tongue. Or making prints on a suddenly blank tableau. I am forty-five and these things still thrill me.

Snow feels cleansing to me, it arrives at a time when it is needed, a way to exfoliate the past year and move on into a new one; fresh bedding, or the daunting excitement of an unsullied sheet of paper.