So what to do on a snowy Sunday afternoon?
Shovel shovel shovel, scrape the concrete with a metal edge.
Make a path.
Sweep clean, if possible. Repeat. Salt a bit.
Listen to the radio for a two hour delay. Hear an interview with a Canadian Astronaut.
Plan to leave early enough so you can wend your way to work, precariously.
Wool socks, a shawl, tea, an afghan, a book turns into a Sunday afternoon nap. Knit a bit.
Heat leftover chili with beans. Write out a birthday card, find a stamp.
Hear from dear friends in Florida, worried your pipes are frozen, or you’re driving on I-70 from Ohio. They saw it on TV. Polar vortex and all.
Steve feeds the feral cats. Their coats so thick.
No snowplows clear my street yet. My friend saw a squall. I just looked out my window before bed. Wondering what morning surprise I’ll find.
Intersection in Bloomfield at a red light
Can’t stop the snow. The wind. Or the mercury dropping to zero and way below.
Distract oneself from the fact that it’s winter and
watch Canadian Astronaut Chris Hadfield sing David Bowie on the International Space Station
like 20 million other people have watched and listened
and wait for Spring.